


Mortal Allies Episode 4: My Turn

by Passion4Spike



Series: Mortal Allies [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 74,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29267514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Passion4Spike/pseuds/Passion4Spike
Summary: On the verge of her 18th birthday, drugged, confused, and betrayed by the very people who were supposed to be her patrons, Buffy turns to the one person she knows would never lie to her...Heart shattered and head spinning, truly alone for the first time in over a century, Spike seeks out the three people he hopes are still his friends. Well, two people and a great, mangy dog...When the worlds of two battered and broken warriors collide again after months apart, can mortal enemies be mortal allies yet again? Will the world let them?Complete at 38 chapters.
Relationships: Daniel "Oz" Osbourne/Willow Rosenberg, Spike/Buffy Summers
Series: Mortal Allies [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1151681
Comments: 50
Kudos: 58





	1. My Way

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* * *

**Author’s Notes:**

**Timing/Set up** : Season 3, begins after Gingerbread and moves into Helpless and the Cruciamentum. There is not a full reminder of what’s happened thus far in the series, so if you haven’t read the previous Episodes, it might not make a lot of sense.

This story (Episode 4) is complete at 38 chapters. I am still working on Episode 5, which has not got a title yet. I *hope* that I’ll have it done by the time this one completes posting. 

**Warnings** : This series is a VERY SLOW burn leading up eventually to Spuffy. This episode will be a bit darker/more angsty for Buffy than what we’ve had thus far in this series. There will also be a lot more action/fights/gore than we’ve had before. I promise it will get better for her (and Spike), but there are some challenges to face first.

No doggies were harmed in the making of this story, though it might seem like they were.

 **Thanks** : All the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to my two wonderful Beta readers: Holi117 and Paganbaby. Extra special thanks to Holi117 for all the time she spent brainstorming with me and keeping me from wandering off into the woods, which I have a tendency to do! She’s added SO MUCH to this story, so many details that I might’ve skimmed over are brought to full life because of her. I can’t be more grateful for her! And PB has my undying awe and gratitude for creating the wonderful banners for these stories (which you can see on AO3 or Elysian Fields)! She rocks, and never tells me what a pain in the butt I am! Thanks also to TeamEricNSookie for all the encouragement and pre-reading of these chapters.

 **Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter 1: My Way**

* * *

**_Sunnydale._ **

_My name is Spike. I am a good boi. Everybody says so. I have a few other names: Guardian of the Twilight, Cujo, chowhound, mangy mutt. I am happy with my names. Many names means many frens._

_I am most happy running and chasing and crunching bad rabbits with my bestest fren, my hooman. She has many names too: Slayer, honey, my dear, Buffy, Buffster. She calls the ‘bad rabbits’ vampires, sometimes demons, too. I just like how they crunch, I am not their friend, so I am not so worried about their names._

_There is another hooman who lives with us. Her name is ‘Mom’. She also has other names, Joyce and Mrs. Summers, but we call her Mom. She is very kind, and always drops treats to me when she is in the food room where she makes all the wonderful smells with all the yummy food. We love her very much._

_I came to live with my hoomans when I was a tiny boi. Now I am a big boi. Everybody says so. Mom is afraid I am still growing. She says I am only a puppy. I have been feeling funny, very much sleepy and a little wobbly and my tummy is all gurgle-y. I don’t even want to crunch rabbits right now, even though it is my favorite thing. Mom says it might be a ‘growth spurt’ and that I will grow too big for my bed. I hope this does not happen. I am very happy in my bed in my hooman’s sleeping place. I like being near my fren. We watch over each other._

_My hooman is the bestest hooman in the world. She is the smartest, the fastest, the strongest, and the bravest. I am lucky to have her as my fren. She has other frens, but I am her bestest fren. Everybody says so. Her other frens are my frens too:_

_There is the sweet one who always gives me hugs and cuddles. She crackles and sparks, very much power bubbling inside, but she never uses it on me or my hoomans. She smells like ancient things – frankincense and myrrh, fire and brimstone, but also fruit punch and Skittles. She has many names, but mostly we call her ‘Willow’._

_There is the laughing, floppy one who always smells delicious – pizza and donuts and cheezeburgers. I like his smell very much. Cheezeburgers are my favorite. He is called ‘Xander’ and gives good ear scratches._

_There is the wolf. Wolves should be crunched like rabbits, but my fren says no crunching. He is like the white rabbit – a good rabbit, a fren – so I do not crunch. But I growl at him to remind him I am watching. My fren calls him ‘Oz’, but I call him wolf._

_There is the new one who is strong and fast, but not as strong and fast as my hooman. She is unpleasant. She never brings me cheezeburgers. She smells bitter; something inside her is soured. I am not trusting of this one who is called ‘Faith’. She calls herself ‘Slayer’, but that is my hooman’s name, not hers. I do not think this one is really a fren._

_This new one is like the brown rabbit – he is called ‘Angel’. I do not like the brown rabbit. He smells of old blood and dead things. Something harsh lurks in the shadows. I think there may be rot at the core, but my hooman says no crunch. I do what I can to keep this rabbit away from my hooman. He dislikes it when I mark his shoes to remind him that I am dominate, or knock him down and drool on his smelly clothes. This makes me very happy._

_These two not-frens have not been around very much lately. This also makes me very happy._

_The alpha of our pack is called ‘Giles’. He has other names: Watcher, Rupert, Ripper, G-man. He is past his prime; his power is old and fading, he smells too often of fear and always of mold. My hooman could easily defeat him and take the pack, but she does not. He is the patriarch, and she submits to his wisdom. I think my hooman does not know her own wisdom is just as great. He is often stern with my hooman and with me, I do not like this, but he brings treats... though they are secret when he brings them. I do not understand why treats must be secret, but they are yummy, so I gobble them._

_My second bestest fren, the white rabbit, has been gone a long time. Since he left, we have had two turkeys and corned beef with funny peas that had black eyes. It was all delicious, though not as good as cheezeburgers. There were mashed potatoes too. They are also good. I like them with gravy on top. We even had a tree inside, but I could not pee on it. This was strange. I like to pee on trees. It tells the rabbits that this place is mine. There were many boxes under this tree. Some of the boxes had treats and toys for me! But the tree and the treats are gone now. I never did get to pee on it._

_I miss my growly fren, the white rabbit. He is the one rabbit I do not want to crunch, though I did at first. Then he gave me cheezeburgers, and fries and rings of onions. My Buffy-fren says no more onions. They make me fart. I do not know why this is bad, but she makes funny sounds and leaves the room when I do it. The white rabbit also has other names – he has my name! He is called ‘Spike’._

_The white rabbit has many smells – smoky, but not like Willow, and of blood – but not like Angel. There is also a sharp tanginess and spice to him. I can feel power inside him – we have taken each other’s measure – we have an understanding. I am happy when I smell him nearby. We have many things that we agree on: keep my hooman safe, keep brown rabbit away, eat many cheezeburgers._

_When I was a very little boi, the white rabbit gave my hoomans to me. I do not remember, but this is the story I have heard told. When I was older, we went for a ride in his moving metal box. Usually, the moving metal box goes to the V-E-T, which is not pleasant, but not this time! This time it was to save the skinny rabbit and it was very much fun. She is called ‘Drusilla’. The skinny rabbit has many funny smells, like arsenic and old lace, like fresh graves and thunderstorms. I do not think she is our fren, but the white rabbit says no crunch. She gives very good ear scratches and talks to the stars, so I no crunch._

_I have kept my promise to my Spike-fren and kept our Buffy-fren safe while he has been away. When she was hurt, I healed her. She says I have magic slobber. I am happy to have magic slobber that can help my Buffy-fren if she gets hurt. She is strong and fast and clever, so it is easy to keep the promise, especially now that the brown rabbit does not butt into our rabbit-crunching fun. He is dangerous – a distraction to my Buffy-fren. On this the white rabbit and I have always agreed – brown rabbit should stay far away. I think my Buffy-fren has seen the wisdom of this now, too. I knew she would – she has very much smartness inside her._

_I would like to show the white rabbit the good job I have done while he has been gone. I have been a very good boi. Everybody says so. I hope he comes back soon. And brings cheezeburgers. But now I am very tired, so I think I will have another nap, and save the cheezeburgers for another day when I am not so very..._ YAWN _... sleepy._

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike drove. He didn’t care where he was going as long as it was _away_. Away from Dru. Away from the pain. _Away_. He didn’t really pay any attention beyond that. He put on the Sex Pistols at full volume and he just drove. He took random turns, left, right, right, left. Away from the woman who he’d devoted himself to for decades. The woman who would never love him, whose heart was locked away by another.

He tried not to worry about Dru, about leaving her alone with the pixies. It wasn’t like she hadn’t managed on her own before, he reasoned. They’d gotten separated in the past, sometimes for weeks, or even a few months, and she’d been fine. Admittedly, it had been a while. Back when things were simpler. When there weren’t so many eyes; when the world moved more slowly, news traveled at a snail’s pace, and pitchforks outnumbered assault weapons. He’d been more reckless then, too – young and brash, happy to take on a mob or even a whole town all on his own. He still relished a good battle, a fists and fangs brawl with the odds stacked against him. But having David versus Goliath odds was one thing, having caveman versus astronauts-with-ray-guns odds was another thing altogether.

He stopped at a small gasolinera to fill up the petrol in the car and get some tequila for the road. He only remembered when he’d stuck his hand in his pocket and came out with nothing but his fags and lighter, that he’d left all his pesos with Dru.

He looked up at the young girl who was behind the register and shrugged. “Lo siento,” he apologized, giving her one of his most charming smiles. “No tengo nada de dinero.”

“Está bien,” she assured him, backing away as far as she could behind the counter and holding her hands up as if he had a gun. “¡Ok! Vete. No quiero problemas.”

It was only then that Spike remembered that he had blood splattered all over his face and down his neck and shirt. He must look a right hoodlum.

“¿Llave del baño?” he asked, not knowing if the bathrooms required keys.

“Si, si,” she replied, grabbing a key with a large wooden stick attached to the key chain, and tossing it to him nervously.

Spike caught it easily in one hand. “Ta,” he said as he headed out, turning to go to the back of the building and the bathrooms to clean up. Or maybe he shouldn’t – he’d probably need more tequila before the night was done.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Just before dawn, Spike pulled up in front of the familiar white building, on the familiar street, in the familiar town.

He’d driven most of the night and gotten exactly nowhere. He stared at the hotel, disgusted with himself for being so bloody pathetic, for coming right back to Dru. He folded his arms over the steering wheel and dropped his forehead atop them, his heart aching. He and Dru, they were eternal – literally. But what did that mean if she could never love him? If she’d always belong to ‘daddy’? No matter what he did, how monstrous he was, how much he tortured her, or how many children he raped and turned for her, she’d never love him.

But where was he supposed to go? What was he supposed to do now? He’d spent decades following her as she followed the pixies from town to town, country to country, continent to continent. Now that he’d declared it ‘his turn’, what the fuck was he supposed to do? Dru was his only family – not counting Angelus, which he didn’t. And he’d never exactly made friends in his travels, he was usually too busy watching over Dru.

Except for one… maybe two.

_“Friends?” Buffy had asked at the end of their last truce, as they stood in her living room before he and Dru had left._

_“Friends,” Spike had agreed._

Green eyes once again filled his vision, but this time they were welcoming, accompanied by a smile, maybe even a laugh. _‘Truce?’ she’d ask when he showed up on her doorstep, arching a brow at him, her arms crossed, stake tapping lightly against her biceps. ‘Truce,’ he’d agree, grinning back at her._

For the first time in what seemed forever, Spike genuinely smiled. He lifted his head and leaned over, opening the glove box and retrieving the mobile phone. Were they really friends? Would she really welcome him back to Sunnydale? Would she be happy to see him? Or had she and the enormous git made up? Did Angel have the Slayer’s heart locked up in a cage along with Dru’s? Had he turned Buffy against him?

“One way to find out,” he muttered, turning the phone on and waiting as it went through its little startup routine and played the jingle.

“Cujo’d be happy t’ see me,” he assured himself as he waited. “A few burgers, merry barrels of cheese, a few ear scratches… friend for life, that one.”

When it had finished its song, the phone made a new sound he’d never heard before, buzzing at him. Spike looked at it, furrowing his brows. “One new message?” he read from the screen. “Sodding telemarketers usin’ up my bloody minutes!” he cursed. “Reckon even Buffy’d let me eat a few o’ those wankers.”

Spike pushed the button to retrieve the message and waited as it connected. An automated voice announced in a measured cadence, “You have one new message. Message one:”

The next voice nearly made Spike drop the phone. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would’ve skipped and lurched. As it was, his breathing came to an abrupt halt. 

“Hey – it’s me … uh, Buffy. Buffy Summers, the Slayer, from Sunnydale?”

Spike’s eyes went wide as he stared in disbelief at the phone. _‘How’d she find me? How’d she know the sodding number?’_

“The one you wanted to choke on cheese and die?”

Spike cringed, bracing himself for whatever obscenities she was about to hurl back at him. His heart sank. So much for finding a friend in Sunnydale. He waited... and waited. Was that it? But no, to his relief, she did start talking again… and not cursing him or insulting his lineage. She was rambling, actually, in that adorable… _annoying_ way of hers, “Anyway, I got your card and I just wanted to, you know, check on you… as a friend would do. So, this is me – checking on you. So, umm, if you want to make with the calling back you can just, you know, do that. If you wanted. To call. Okay… bye.”

Spike tried to figure out how to save the message. He remembered the salesman going over this with him when he’d bought it, showing him how to set up the voicemail and all that rot. He knew the monotone voice should tell him what to do, what button to push, but so far, it had remained irritatingly silent. He was about to start cursing the blasted thing when Buffy’s voice surprised him again. “Sorry – probably would help to have the number, right? Don’t be a smartass. Okay, it’s 831-555-2409. Okay, hate you… bye.”

He smirked. “Already got your number, don’t I, Slayer?” he asked the phone, only to be interrupted again by Buffy, her voice quiet and heartfelt, “I hope you’re okay, Spike.”

Spike stared at the phone as if he could see her expression, understand what the bloody hell that was about. Was she… worried about him? The Slayer? Actually worried about _him_? Even after the ‘choke on cheese and die’ missive?

“To play this message again, press 4. To save this message in your archives, press 7. To hang up, press pound. For more options, press zero,” the dull, helpful voice informed him.

Spike played it again. And again. And again. He laughed at her introduction… Buffy Summers, the Slayer, from Sunnydale. How many sodding Buffy Summerses or Slayers did she reckon he knew? Clearly, she’d gotten his card… the ‘fuck you’ card. He still hoped to all that was evil and wicked in the world that he hadn’t sent a card to her when he’d been drunk. When had she called and left this message? The bloody thing didn’t tell him that. He hadn’t had the phone powered on since the bar... and he wasn’t entirely sure how long ago that was now. The days were all muddled in gallons of Patrón.

“Stupid sodding machine,” he cursed it, trying to figure out how to tell when she’d called, but he stopped and just listened to her last words instead. “I hope you’re okay, Spike.”

A lump formed in his throat as he played the message again and again.

“I hope you’re okay, Spike.”

“I hope you’re okay, Spike.” 

“I hope you’re okay, Spike.”

He finally saved it to the archives, having every word, every nuance of tone, every pause and hitch in her voice memorized. When he disconnected, the screen asked him if he wanted to save the number to his contacts. He did, painstakingly spelling out the name on the small keys: ‘Buffy Summers, the Slayer, from Sunnydale.’

He looked up again at the hotel. At the hallway that would lead to Drusilla. Then he looked back down at his phone, Buffy’s voice still playing in his head, _‘Okay, hate you… bye.’_

Spike bit his lip, hesitated only another moment – his decision made. Remembering how grumpy the Slayer could be early in the morning, he decided a pre-dawn callback wouldn’t win him any points. So, Spike turned the phone off to save the battery, planning to call her that afternoon when she’d be home from school. His mind made up, his resolve set, he put the phone back in the glovebox, started the car, and backed out of the parking lot. This time, he wouldn’t be back.

“Hate you, too, Slayer,” he muttered, a smile curving his lips. He turned up the volume on Sid Vicious bellowing out a remake of ‘My Way’ as he pulled away, Spike’s voice joining in as he disappeared, heading north into the breaking dawn.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Story Board**

**If you have downloaded this story and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kzyhqt). **

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**End notes:**

Thank you so much for reading! I know this was a short chapter. Eep! Sorry about that! But! He listened to the message – FINALLY! That’s gotta get extra points, right?

I plan on posting a couple of chapters a week (and I promise they’ll be longer than this) – usually on Thursday and Saturday.

The version of My Way that Spike was listening to in Lovers Walk is this one: <https://youtu.be/arMXYEDuWPg> by Gary Oldman from the movie ‘Sid & Nancy’, but of course, we know Spike would actually be listening to Sid’s original version IRL, right? 


	2. Not Good Enough

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**Chapter Notes:**

No doggies were harmed in the making of this story, though it might seem like they were.

**Remember:** When we are in Mexico (or anywhere other than Sunnydale), that ‘Spike’ refers to the vampire; and when we’re in Sunnydale it refers to the puppy. Eventually this won’t be necessary, eventually we can be totally confused with them in the same room (because I’m clearly insane having two main characters with the same name), but until then, that’s the rule.

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Milk-Bones for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Not Good Enough**

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**_Mexico._ **

Spike drove north. Each mile further away from Dru and closer to Buffy was at once heart wrenching and heartwarming. Above all, it was terrifying. Just because the Slayer wanted to know if he was okay, didn’t mean she wanted him to show up on her doorstep. He should just call, but he’d stalled too long – she’d be in school now. He’d have to wait for later… later would be better. Not like he’d be there in a few minutes, or even a few hours. Take three days or more before that doorstep, and the Slayer, came into view. Yeah, he could wait – he’d call later.

Doubts swirled and buzzed like bees in his gut, but he kept driving. Away from Dru. Toward Buffy. Away from the devil he knew and toward… well, a completely different kind of devil that he knew. Away from a lover that couldn’t love him and toward a mortal enemy that had called him ‘friend’. ‘ _I hope you’re okay, Spike.’_

Tears leaked from his eyes unhindered. Tears of loss, but also tears of relief. After more than a century, maybe it really was finally his turn.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy tried to lure her dog into the Cherokee with cheese and Giles’ treats and even bologna, but Spike just stayed on the ground where he’d flopped after reluctantly trudging out to the car. She sighed as her mom came out, keys in hand.

“You didn’t tell him we were taking him to the V-E-T did you?” Buffy asked as Joyce approached.

“No,” her mom replied. “But you probably just did. I really think he can spell.”

Buffy huffed out an annoyed breath and tried lifting Spike back to his feet. The big dog grunted in protest, but finally got up with her assistance, wobbling unsteadily as he did so. “Okay, Spikey,” she cajoled when he finally made it up. “I need you to jump. Jump! C’mon!” she encouraged, patting the back floorboard of the Jeep with her hand to get him to load up.

Spike crouched down, readying himself for the usually effortless leap. He pushed off with all fours, lifting his front feet from the ground, but they didn’t rise as they should, the normal strength and coordination lacking. He ended up banging his nose on the bumper as his feet plopped back down on the driveway.

The huge dog whined, shaking his head slightly in confusion or pain, or both. He then sat down hard on his butt and just looked at her plaintively, clearly wanting to do as she asked, but simply unable to.

“This is so not good,” Buffy muttered bending down to hug him, her worry and fear quadrupling by the moment. She looked up at her mom, who was also looking concerned. “Maybe I should try and call Uriah,” the Slayer pondered, chewing her lip as she stood back up, keeping one hand comfortingly on Spike’s big head.

“The breeder from Romania that Drusilla stole him from?” Joyce asked, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, I mean, if they’ve been breeding these types of dogs and raising them for centuries, you’d think they’d know what would cause this… except that I don’t know where he is or have a phone number. God, why didn’t I at least ask for his stupid phone number?”

“Probably because you were concentrating on saving Drusilla – and by extension, our Spike – seeing as the man kidnapped her to get the puppy back?” Joyce suggested.

“Yeah, pretty much.” The Slayer rolled her eyes and sighed. Maybe some of Giles’ books on the Guardians of the Twilight would have some clues. If the stupid MOO people had left any of them…

“Well, in the meantime, we need to get him to the V-E-T,” Joyce pointed out.

Buffy nodded, looking back down at her dog. “Okay, boy, I’m gonna pick you up and put you in the car,” she told him, squatting down and wrapping her arms around his entire body. They actually didn’t make it all the way around, but she adjusted her grip until it felt solid and safe, and then stood up.

Or tried to stand up. And failed.

She tried again, grunting with the effort, and still no joy. Spike remained steadfastly planted on the driveway. “What the hell?” Buffy muttered, trying a third time, adding in a jerk instead of a smooth lift. Spike lifted maybe a hair off the ground, then just dropped back down as Buffy panted with the effort.

“Have you been eating barbells or something?” she demanded breathlessly, letting go and standing back up.

“What’s the matter?” Joyce asked, coming up to stand on the other side of the dog.

Buffy shook out her arms and legs. _‘Maybe just not warmed up,’_ she thought, and squatted down to try again. She strained and pulled and lifted and gripped him until he groaned, and could not lift him even a little bit. She let go abruptly, squeaking in surprise when she felt something in her back pull and ‘pop’.

The Slayer huffed out an exasperated breath, standing up, and rubbing her lower back, which had a pronounced and very un-Slayer-like ache beginning. She was able to lift headstones and boulders and big, ugly vampires and throw them across cemeteries. Why couldn’t she lift her dog into the back of the Jeep?

“Let me help you,” her mom suggested, setting her keys and purse on the roof of the SUV. “Maybe just do his front half first, and then the back?”

Buffy nodded. With Joyce on one side and Buffy on the other, they managed to lift Spike’s front feet onto the bumper, then with another heave of effort, they got him in the back up to his chest. Finally, with Spike whining and pulling with his front paws as well as he could, and them lifting and pushing on his rear-end, they managed to get the huge dog into the back of the Cherokee. Buffy and Joyce both leaned on the SUV panting from the effort as Spike tried to get into a more comfortable position in the truck.

“I guess…” Buffy said between gasps for air. “I better… go with you… to help… get him… in and out.”

“I’ll write… you a note… for school,” Joyce agreed, grabbing her keys and purse and heading for the driver’s door.

Buffy leaned in and gave Spike a hug, his long, coppery mane tickling her nose as she got her breathing back under control. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “You’ll be back to normal soon. They’ll figure it out… it’s probably just too many cheeseburgers or something.”

Spike whined and nuzzled against her neck with his cool nose.

Buffy snorted a small chuckle. “Yeah, I know, cheeseburgers are your life… but it’s never broccoli that doctors want you to give up, trust me.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

By the time the bright, Mexican sun was at its zenith, Spike’s eyelids had begun to droop dangerously. He’d jerked awake more than once, horns blaring, the DeSoto drifting off the road or into oncoming traffic. Finally giving in to the exhaustion from lack of sleep and emotional upheaval, he pulled into a rundown but functional gasolinera that had an expansive parking area in the back for big rigs. He drove around and parked at the very back in a patch of shade cast by an oak tree, as far away from the noisy bustle of the business as possible.

Spike climbed wearily into the backseat, shifted once or twice to find a slightly less uncomfortable position, and was literally dead to the world before he could even pray for dreamless sleep.

He was awakened two seconds later – or so it seemed – by the wail of a horn and impassioned shouts from hot-blooded Latinos some distance away, apparently set on living up to the stereotype. He yawned widely, stretching his aching body as best he could in the cramped confines of the backseat. Joints in his back and neck popped in relief as he straightened them, and he groaned with the small pleasure of it. The vampire lifted a hand to rub his gritty eyes, but jerked it back with a yelp when pain bloomed in his nose and radiated out to devour his entire face in searing agony. He’d forgotten about his smashed nose.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, gingerly feeling his swollen eyes and broken nose. “Must look like a sodding raccoon… who’d had his nose smashed by his barmy sire.”

He sighed and climbed back over to the front seat to peer out of the opening in the sunscreen. He’d been asleep more than two seconds, maybe three or four hours, he reckoned. Buffy’d likely be home from school now. His stomach started fluttering with chittering squirrels as he reached over and retrieved the phone from the glovebox and turned it on.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he grumbled to himself as he waited. “Acting like a right fop in short pants… like ya never talked to a sodding girl before.”

Doubt crept into Spike’s thoughts. Was he doing the right thing? He still couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten his number or what had prompted her call. Was it the ‘fuck you’ card he’d sent? Was she really concerned about him? Did she really want him to ‘make with the calling back’? He’d soon find out, he supposed, gathering up his nerve to punch the entry for ‘Buffy Summers, the Slayer, from Sunnydale’. This would be so much easier if he could see her – see her face, read her expression, hear her heartbeat – he’d be able to tell if she meant it without having to say a word. But he was still many hours away from being able to do that.

He swallowed as the phone started up, but instead of the normal screen the message, ‘no signal’ appeared. His brows furrowed, but the squirrels in his stomach settled slightly. He took a deep breath and let it out, a profound sense of relief rolling through him.

“Just have to wait, I reckon,” he decided with a sniff, trying to sound disappointed but failing miserably. He flipped the phone closed but left it on, setting it in the seat next to him so he could see when it had a signal. With the squirrels scampering off to do whatever they did when they weren’t making his stomach flutter, Spike dug in his duster pockets for his fags and lit one before starting the engine. As the motor rumbled to life ‘The Clash’ began to blare from the speakers urging him to ‘Rock the Casbah’.

He snorted, the warmth of memory suffusing his chest and bringing a smile to his lips as he pulled back onto the highway. He headed north. North to the infuriatingly adorable chit that inspired that comforting sensation. North to find out once and for all if she was still his friend.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Joyce and Buffy returned home from the vet with Spike, and with far more questions than answers. According to the doggy doctor, there was nothing obviously wrong with their beloved pet. Nothing showed up in the blood tests they’d done. No heartworms, no intestinal worms, no worms at all. He wasn’t anemic, there were adequate white blood cells, and kidney and liver function were ‘within normal range’. There were no tick-borne diseases. His electrolyte and protein levels seemed fine. All the basic tests showed nothing wrong with him.

By the time the three of them had arrived home, and Joyce had called in to excuse Buffy from school for the day, Buffy had begun to realize that she might be coming down with something herself. Throughout the morning, she’d felt as though she was getting weaker and weaker, all her normal easy strength and nearly-unburnable-energy drained away, just like Spike’s. Now she felt as though she was weighed down, like gravity had suddenly increased. Not exactly sick, but not exactly well, either. It was more than a little concerning, honestly.

Spike seemed too tired from all the exertion at the V-E-T to make it up the stairs, so Buffy trudged alongside him into the kitchen, and settled him onto the cool, tiled floor near to his food and water bowls. After retrieving a Coke from the fridge, she dropped herself down onto a stool with a huff.

Joyce turned, gathering bits and pieces for her purse, preparing to leave for the gallery. She paused, frowning at her daughter. “Honey, are you okay?”

Buffy glanced up, waving a weak, dismissive hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Feeling a little ooky.”

Her mother rounded the counter and placed a gentle palm against her cheek, then her forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a temperature, or anything.”

“No, nothing like that. Tired… maybe I didn’t eat enough at breakfast,” she suggested.

“Maybe you should spend the day on the couch with Spike, hmm? Both of you look like you could use it.”

“Can’t,” Buffy sighed. “I need to go find Giles at the library. If the vet says Spike’s fine, then maybe it’s something from the spooky side of the street. And with me feeling all ‘ _ergh’_ , today, I’m starting to think there’s no ‘maybe’ about it.”

“Buffy, are you sure you want to –” Joyce cut herself off with a sigh, her mouth twisting in that new way it did whenever she tried to mom over Slayer stuff, and caught herself doing it. “Why don’t I drive you? It’s not too far out of the way to the gallery.”

Buffy smiled gratefully, but shook her head. “No, it’s all good. You’re late as it is. I’ll make a sandwich, see if Spike’ll eat something, and head out in a bit. Anyways, sunshine and fresh air always makes Buffy a happier camper.” She gave her mother another reassuring smile, determined not to worry her more than was needed. “Besides, I can still walk!” And she could. So far…

“You sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m all with the sureness. You go. Sell art. Be business lady. I’ll just grab a bite, make sure Spike’s settled, and skedaddle. It’s all good.” She tried to sound perky, but really wasn’t sure she’d nailed it.

Her mother gave her another concerned glance, and nodded. “I’ll see you tonight then. Don’t overdo it.” She pointed to her daughter and the pup in turn.

“Promise,” Buffy nodded once, holding up three fingers in a Girl Scout promise.

After her mom left, Buffy got some peanut butter and jelly out to make herself a sandwich. With the fabulous Wonder Bread on her plate she tried to twist the lid off the peanut butter, looking forward to plunging her knife into that smooth, fresh surface. Somehow that first dip into a new jar was just better.

The lid didn’t budge. She frowned and tried again. Nothing. Buffy grunted and groaned, putting her whole body into the effort. Nope. She ran it under hot water, she tapped it with a spoon, she got one of those rubber ‘gripper pads’ her mom used out of the drawer and tried that.

The Jiff remained stubbornly un-jiffy. Just as she was considering getting an axe from the weapons cabinet, the doorbell rang.

Spike barely looked up at the sound – foregoing his normal habit of running for the door, pushing aside anyone who was in his way, and letting out an ear-splitting bark at the intruder on the other side.

“So not good,” Buffy muttered as she headed for the door alone, shaking out her hand, which was sore and tired from trying to get into the stubborn jar.

The impatient delivery man outside was about to hit the doorbell a second time when she pulled the door open. “Buffy Summers?” he asked curtly, reading from a card on the vase of flowers in his hand.

“Present,” she confirmed, reaching for the beautiful yellow and white bouquet, the flowers overflowing a lovely cut glass vase. The terse delivery man had her sign for them and headed away, off to deliver more fragrant cheer across town, apparently determined to complete his mission in the most cheerless way possible.

She closed the door and inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers, her mind racing with possibilities. Would Spike send her flowers to apologize for not calling her back? Or for his rude ‘fuck you’ postcard? Or… or maybe because he remembered her birthday? Would he remember her birthday? Oh, God, what if they were from Angel? Angel most certainly knew when her birthday was. Just a few days away now.

Buffy went back into the kitchen, set the vase down on the breakfast island, and pulled the card from the little holder. Her heart skittered and lurched in her chest… Spike or Angel? Who else could it be? Certainly not Percy. _‘Please be Spike,’_ she chanted silently, too tired and worried to even bother chastising herself for it, as she pulled the card out of the envelope. A couple of other bits of paper came out with it.

Her eager smile fell. Her heart sank.

_Hey, pumpkin! I’m so sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it this year. My quarterly projections are unraveling and I just can’t afford the time off right now. I promise to make it up to you! Here are the tickets; I’m sure you can find someone else to go with you._

_Happy birthday!_

_Love,_

_Dad_

“Love, Dad,” she muttered bitterly. Was he even serious right now? Did he even know the meaning of the word?

Buffy blinked back the tears that stung hotly in her eyes as she read the card again and again, setting the two tickets to the Ice Capades down on the counter. Quarterly projections. Clearly, her eighteenth birthday wasn’t as important as _quarterly projections_. Her life wasn’t as important as his job. Just like her mom wasn’t as important as his secretary… or secretar _ies_. He couldn’t even call – too much of a coward – he had to send flowers! _Fucking flowers!_ Flowers that should make her feel happy and be from someone who... who actually cared about her.

Pure, unadulterated fury boiled up in her belly, filling the Slayer with a primal rage she’d rarely ever felt. Buffy grabbed up the vase of flowers and stomped angrily to the back door, making Spike look up from his sprawl on the floor. Buffy flung the door open, stepped out onto the porch, and hurled the vase at the oak tree at the back of the yard with all her strength. She needed it to shatter. To be crushed. To splinter into a thousand pieces. She needed it trampled, demolished, destroyed, just like her father had done to her family. To her hopes and expectations. To her heart.

Even propelled by all that hostility, the vase only went a few feet, falling to the grass just beyond the steps. It was completely unharmed except for some of the posies falling out or being crumpled, and the water spilling, dribbling out onto the lush, green winter ryegrass.

Buffy screeched in frustration, her throat burning with the effort. She dropped down to sit on the top step, covering her head with her arms as she cried, unable to do more. She felt like her entire world was falling to pieces. Something was wrong with her dog – her loyal friend, her constant companion, healer of broken hearts, and stalwart slaying buddy. And now, something was wrong with _her_!

Buffy felt like she’d been kicked when she was already down, like a sucker punch from out of the blue had slammed into her. When she really needed her dad to be there for her, to add some comfort and even normalcy to her life, he turned his back on her. When she really could’ve used some cheering up, all he’d done was stick another dagger in her heart.

It was her eighteenth birthday, for heaven’s sake! It was a huge milestone in her life, and he’d just walked away. Like he’d walked away from his family. Like he’d walked away from his wife.

The memory of a nightmare come to life flooded Buffy’s mind, her dad telling her that the divorce was all her fault, that the reason he couldn’t stay was because of Buffy and all the trouble she’d gotten into. He’d said she was sullen and rude and selfish… and not very bright. He’d said he never wanted to see her again. It hadn’t been really real, that nightmare, but it had ended up coming true, hadn’t it? Hank had slowly stopped coming, then stopped calling. Every other weekend and several weeks over the summer turned into a weekend now and then, which turned into sporadic phone calls when he had time. When his ‘ _quarterly projections weren’t unraveling_.’ Whatever the fuck that meant.

And now? And now even the phone calls had stopped. Now she got flowers and a note in someone else’s handwriting. He wasn’t coming for her eighteenth birthday. And if he wasn’t coming for that, then he wasn’t ever coming again. She knew that as well as she knew that demons walked the Earth.

Buffy sat on the back porch steps and sobbed, her heart shattered, half of her hating her father for what he’d done, the other half wondering if it was all her fault. She hadn’t been the best daughter. She had embarrassed her parents and gotten into all kinds of trouble. But she was the Slayer – it hadn’t been a choice. It wasn’t like she’d done all that stuff just for fun; she’d been saving lives!

Only now, she was the Slayer without any Slayer strength. And her dog was a Guardian of the Twilight without his Guardian strength.

Her stomach twisted and her heart ached – she was angry at her dad but feeling guilty at the same time – the two emotions waged war inside her. If she’d only been more lovable, maybe he wouldn’t have left them… or maybe he’d at least have come for her birthday. But shouldn’t he love her unconditionally? Wasn’t that what love was supposed to be?

Painful, gulping wails tore from her throat as her shoulders shuddered and quaked miserably as the weight of it all pressed her down and continued kicking. Maybe she just wasn’t enough. Maybe she just wasn’t loveable. If your own father couldn’t love you... what did that mean?

Despite his exhaustion, Spike lurched up to his feet and padded out to her. He brushed against her tiredly, knocking her gently to the side, as he made his way down the stairs on wobbly legs. On the lawn, he stopped by the vase of flowers, sniffed it, then raised one leg, and with a concerted effort to not lose his balance, showered it thoroughly and disdainfully.

Buffy couldn’t help but smile through her tears, her ragged breaths combining with an amused snort to make a very unladylike sound. Spike looked supremely pleased as he came slowly back up the steps, right to her. He pushed in between her legs and settled his big head on her thigh.

“Good boy, Spike,” she whispered, leaning down to wrap her arms around him and bury her tear-streaked face in his soft fur. “I love you so much,” she continued. “We’ll figure this out, get you better… I swear,” she vowed. She had to. He was the one man in her life who could always heal her heart – the one who loved her unconditionally, who would never, ever turn his back on her, who always thought she was enough.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Later that day, Spike raised his head up from the floor when the talking device began to ring. He blinked at it as it continued disturbing his fifth afternoon nap until, finally, he heard his hooman’s voice put an end to the annoying sound.

“You’ve reached the Summers’ residence. We’re not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep and we’ll get back as soon as we can.”

The big dog sighed and settled his head back on the pillow Buffy had put under it when she’d left for school a little earlier, his eyes drifting closed again.

_Beeeep._

“Slayer? …Buffy? …Joyce?”

Spike’s brown eyes shot open, suddenly alert – or as alert as he could get through the fog of exhaustion that he was steeped in. His head lifted again as the familiar voice of the white rabbit filled the living room.

“You lot home? It’s Spike…the vampire… from Mexico. Thought all good schoolgirls would be tucked up studyin’ their maths at this bright, sunny hour,” the white rabbit said, the words coming from the square plastic box on the end table.

“Rrrarf!” Spike replied as he grunted and heaved with all his might to get himself to his feet. He padded gingerly over to the source of the voice, his ears cocked, listening. “Rrrarrf!” he repeated.

“Jus’ now got your message, Slayer. Nice cover with the ‘worried about me’ bit, but no need for charades. Know ya just can’t keep your mind off me. Miss me, did you? Got no one to humiliate you at Trivial Pursuit? Don’t reckon Peaches would fare well on that ‘less you get one for senile ol’ codgers.”

“Wooof!” Spike responded, his tail wagging languidly as he looked around, waiting for his friend to appear. “Woof!” he urged again.

There was a pause, a click, then a deep inhalation and a quiet crackle of burning tobacco as a cigarette flared to life. “Right, then. I reckon this makes you ‘it’, eh? Sodding phone doesn’t seem to work outside the cities – bloody inconvenient, that. But, I reckon you can still leave a message if you feel the overwhelming tingling desire t’ hear my voice.”

There was another long silence, another deep inhalation and slow exhale. Spike nudged the machine with his nose, sniffing all around it for the familiar scents of the good vampire, but smelling only plastic coated in lemon-fresh Pledge.

“Right, well, best be off ‘fore I gotta buy more sodding minutes. Give a bell back when ya get in.” There was another pause, another sizzle of tobacco and paper flaring with an audible draw of breath. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Hate you, Slayer. Ta.”

Spike whined unhappily as the gadget made some clicking and whirring sounds and a small red light began flashing on its face. Confused, the dog looked first at the back door and then the front, expecting his friend any moment. When nothing happened, he nudged the plastic box again… and again. Still, the white rabbit didn’t appear.

He huffed out a heavy sigh and laid his chin down atop the source of the comforting voice of his namesake. “You have one new message,” a strange person announced, making Spike jerk back. With his brows drawn down in confusion, he stared intently at the new sound.

The Guardian perked his ears up as the white rabbit’s voice began again, repeating what he’d just said, word for word. The dog backed up and looked under the table and then sniffed under the couch, but couldn’t find his friend. He nudged the curtains aside and looked behind them, but no one appeared. Finally, worn out from the hunt, he huffed out a heavy sigh and trudged back over to the pillow Buffy had put down for him. He turned around three times before dropping back down with a thud.

The big dog settled his chin on the pillow, soft brown eyes trained on the magic machine where the white rabbit had been, the flashing light now having gone dark again. He watched diligently for his friend to appear, but his eyelids grew heavier and heavier as each minute passed. Soon, the big dog was starting his sixth nap of the afternoon, dreaming of cheezeburgers and french-fries and the white-haired rabbit who’d become his friend.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Mexico._ **

Spike flipped the phone closed with a sigh, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that no one had been home. He was pretty sure he’d sounded fine, normal, on the message. Like the big bad returning a call, not a heartbroken ponce who needed a friend. This was probably better, he decided. He wasn’t sure he could’ve kept his composure if Buffy had asked him again if he was alright. Didn’t need t’ start blubbering like a sodding fledge. Bad for the image, that. If she called back that would tell him if he was heading in the right direction or not.

He squinted, peering out of the small opening in the sunshield at the highway that stretched out before him, the seaside town of Los Mochis spread out to either side. It was getting on toward evening, the sun would be setting over the Gulf of California in the next hour or so. As soon as it was full dark, he needed to find a crowded tourist spot to replenish his pesos and get a bite to eat. Then he could be on his way again with enough dosh to pay for his petrol all the way to Sunnydale. Pickpocketing was easier and less risky than leaving a string of bloodied gas station attendants in his wake – be like a trail of breadcrumbs leading the Federales right to him. That was trouble he didn’t need – trouble that could slow him down or force him in a different direction. It had nothing at all to do with the green eyes that always seemed to be looking over his shoulder… nothing whatsoever.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

“Giles!” Buffy called breathlessly as she rushed into the library, not realizing he was standing at the counter just a few feet away. God, she was tired. Had that hallway always been so long?

“There’s no need to bellow,” he pointed out, turning to look at her, one brow raised. “This is still a library, after all.”

“Giles!” she exhaled in relief at the sight of him. “Something’s seriously wrong!”

“With Spike?” he asked, looking concerned.

“No. Yes! Yes – Spike, but me! Something’s wrong with me, too!” Buffy explained. “Watch!” she instructed, walking around behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tried to lift him off the floor. Buffy grunted and leaned back, straining with everything she had, making her back twinge and burn again, but barely raised his heels off the ground.

“What, pray tell, are you doing?” he wondered, stepping out of her grip and turning to face her.

“Trying to pick you up! …In a literal sense not a… you know, dating sense, cos… gross,” she clarified, wrinkling her nose. 

“I see. And you are doing this why?” he asked.

“To show you I can’t! I can’t pick you up! I can’t pick Spike up, I can barely pick up a basket of laundry!” the Slayer exclaimed, panic rising in her voice. “How am I supposed to slay vampires if I can’t even slay the laundry!?”

She didn’t give him time to answer before whirling away from him. Buffy grabbed a basketball they sometimes used for training out of the book cage, took aim, and flung it with all her strength. It sailed past Giles and struck a short, brunette boy, who had just opened the library door, right in the head.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “That hurt!”

“Sorry, Jonathan,” Buffy apologized, moving toward him. “Library’s closed for… basketball practice,” she insisted, pushing him back out the door and picking up the basketball. She turned to look at Giles. “Well!?”

“Well what? That seemed quite good, actually,” he observed. “How did you know he would be entering just then?”

“I didn’t! I wasn’t aiming at him!” she explained in a rush. “I was aiming at YOU! From, like, ten feet away! There’s no way I could miss… except I did! I… I throw like a… a…”

“A girl?” Giles suggested.

“No! Not a girl! Like a blind zombie with no arms!” Buffy declared. “Something is seriously wrong. It’s not just Spike now, it’s me too. Maybe I caught whatever he has. Maybe there’s a curse, a spell or something on us. Maybe…”

“That’s quite a lot of maybes,” the Watcher pointed out. “What did the vet say about Spike?”

“She couldn’t really find anything wrong with him. My mom spent half the national debt on tests, but they didn’t show anything. If we want more tests, she’ll have to mortgage the house.” Buffy sighed and tossed the ball back toward the open cage. It missed the open door, bounced off the wire and ended up knocking Giles’ empty mug off the research table. It hit the floor and broke into several pieces, the ball rolling to a stop against the stairs that led up to the stacks.

Giles sighed. “That was my favorite mug,” he complained dourly.

“I’ll buy you a new one! Focus here – Buffy and Spike badness!” the girl reminded him emphatically.

“Yes, well, I’m certain it’s nothing to worry about, my dear. As I said before, probably a simple virus… perhaps something he picked up on patrol that a bit of rest will cure,” her Watcher assured her, walking over to pick up the broken bits of his ‘Kiss the Librarian’ mug.

“No, there’s no stuffy nose, no puke-fest, no fever… Giles, it’s something else,” she insisted. “Do you think the Powers have paid a visit to Count von Count?”

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to know what that means?”

“From Sesame Street… The Count! He… you know, _counts_ ,” Buffy began to explain in exasperation flinging her arms out, but stopped, shaking her head at his blank expression. “Never mind. Do you think they figured out that there are _two_ girls in all the world now, not just one girl, and they’re making with the subtraction?”

“Ah,” Giles acknowledged finally. “No, I don’t believe that’s the case. If that were their plan, then logically they would deactivate the newer girl… Faith, not you…O-or simply not have Called her when Kendra…” Giles’ voice trailed off uncomfortably.

“Was killed by Dru while Angelus distracted me,” Buffy filled in when he didn’t finish the thought.

“Y-yes…” he agreed sheepishly, dropping his gaze from hers.

Buffy felt a wave of guilt wash over her, just as it did every time she thought about that night. She couldn’t indulge in that now, though, so she wrapped it back in its bloody chains and pushed it back into that hidden corner of her heart where she kept all that pain.

So, if it wasn’t the PTB suddenly taking Slayer inventory, then… then it must be something specifically about her or Spike. He’d started feeling bad first. Maybe if she found out what was wrong with him, it would tell her what was wrong with her. “Do you still have those books about the Guardian of the Twilight? Maybe there’s something in them about it happening to other Guardian dogs.”

“Yes, I have them at my flat,” he told her, carefully picking up the bits of mug and tossing them into the bin. “I can bring them in tomorrow for you, if you’d like. But I really think a few days of rest will…”

“Should I be looking for a pod?” she asked him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I beg your pardon?”

She sighed. “You aren’t acting like Giles… Giles, president of the research-until-your-eyes-bleed club.”

Giles took his glasses off and began scrubbing them dutifully. “I simply think we should give it a few days and see if it passes. It’s very likely just a bug.”

“That both Spike and I have…” Buffy retorted, unconvinced.

The man put his glasses back on and looked at her. “Yes. You do spend an inordinate amount of time together and he isn’t the most hygienic animal I’ve ever encountered. Why don’t you take off patrolling for a while and see how you feel next week?”

“ _Next week_!? That’s your advice? Wait and see?” she asked incredulously. “What if there’s an apocalypse tomorrow? What if the Hellmouth opens? What if the sky starts falling? My birthday’s coming up, after all! Badness abounds!”

“Yes, well, I see no cause for a ‘Henny Penny’ impersonation. In any case, I thought you were going with your father to the ice show and shopping this weekend. I don’t see how the wholesale purchase of inordinately unsuitable footwear or watching other people spin about on frozen water while balancing on knives could cause, errr… ‘badness’, as you say,” he assured her, turning his back and heading for the office.

“Dad, yeah…” she muttered as hot tears stung Buffy’s eyes. She watched Giles walk away, her heart sinking, the conversation clearly over. It felt like the men in her life were all turning their backs on her, literally walking away. First her dad, now Giles – both had just blown her off as if she were nothing, no one.

This was _not_ a virus. She knew it. What Buffy couldn’t figure out was why Giles wasn’t taking this more seriously. Why wasn’t he calling in the troops for a research party? Did he think she was lying? Faking it to get out of patrol? What had she ever done to make him think that? She’d always done her best, killed the baddies, saved the world, given her life, sent Angel to hell, even. Why wouldn’t Giles help her now? What had she done to make them all turn away? Was she suddenly not good enough? Not a good enough daughter? Not a good enough Slayer? Not a good enough _person_?

Buffy blinked back her tears, clenched her jaw and whirled on her heel. Her steps were as hurried as she could get them given the pain radiating from her back and the exhaustion that seemed to permeate every cell of her body. If he wouldn’t help her, she’d figure it out herself. She’d show him that she was still a good Slayer, still… still worthy and capable and… and loveable.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kALBjm).**

* * *

**End notes:**

Thank you so much for reading!! We will be having a bit more of Sunnydale in the next couple of chapters as Buffy tries to figure out what’s wrong with her and doggie-Spike, but never fear, vampire-Spike is on the way!

I plan on posting a couple of chapters a week – usually on Thursday and Saturday.

Who remembers having that stupid ‘no signal’ thing on their phone? I think the only place I’ve had that happen recently is traveling in the back hills of Alabama. And how about ROAMING CHARGES? I didn’t get into that here, but... wow, I’m really old. Haha!

And if you like Count von Count, this is the funniest video of him ever. I love it: <https://youtu.be/6AXPnH0C9UA>


	3. Fay Wray, Lois Lane, Buffy Summers

**Chapter Notes:**

**Warning** (sort of?): I want to make you aware that the next few days in story-time will seem a lot longer because each day will have 2-4 chapters PER DAY (24 hours). So, it might seem like a lot of time is passing, but really, it’s only because of each day being covered from different POVs or because there’s a lot happening and we’re following it all in ‘real time’ for the most part. Don’t let it throw you.

Apologies for lack of Spikes (both) in this chapter.

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Snausages for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Fay Wray, Lois Lane, Buffy Summers**

**__ **

* * *

**_Sunnydale._ **

Just as twilight was dwindling into night, Buffy descended the stairs into the walled garden at Angel’s mansion on Crawford Street. She hadn’t been here since the candlelit ginger ale and Triscuit party, but she needed answers and he just might have some. She hoped this wouldn’t blow up in her face, but desperate times called for desperate measuring cups.

She knocked on the glass door between the garden and the living area, hoping the vampire was up. It took a few of her feeble knocks to get his attention, but finally he came out of one of the hallways and into view, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“Buffy!” he greeted her in surprise, motioning her to enter as he crossed the room. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

Buffy let herself in, but didn’t go to the couch, choosing to remain standing near the doors. “I need to ask you something.”

“Sure, anything,” Angel agreed, watching her with concern and maybe a small spark of hope.

“Did you… I mean, have you known any other Slayers… other than me? Like… fought any or crossed paths with them or anything?” she wondered, proud of how calm she sounded.

Angel furrowed his brows. “Not that I know of. I mean… I was in Beijing when Spike killed that one, but if I saw her, I didn’t know it. Why? What’s this about?”

“You know I told you Spike was feeling bad – his strength was gone and stuff?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, now mine is too… I… all my Slayer-ness has tottered off to Tipperary. I-I was just wondering if you’d ever heard anything about that happening to other Slayers,” she explained, just as she’d rehearsed on the walk from the high school.

Angel shook his head, daring a step closer to Buffy, seeming pleased when she didn’t back away. “No, I’ve never heard of anything like that. It’s probably that dog – he’s really unhygienic,” the vampire suggested. “You have him in the house all the time, in your room… in your bed?” He paused, looking genuinely pained. “Do you have him in your _bed_?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “No, Spike doesn’t sleep in my bed – he has his own bed in my room.”

“Do you have any idea how disturbing that sentence is?” Angel wondered. “The name ‘Spike’ and ‘your bed’ really shouldn’t be in the same conversation – _ever_.”

“Angel… This is serious. Can you think of anything that would cause this?” she asked, pointedly ignoring his comment.

He shook his head. “Could it just be a, you know, bug? Do you know how many people influenza has killed? Way more than vampires! Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

Buffy huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Am I really that huge of a drama queen? Seriously? I’ve had the flu before, just last year. Yes, it made me tired and there was a general ‘yuck’ factor – it even landed me in the hospital with dehydration – but it wasn’t like this! I know the damn difference.”

Angel held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, I just… I don’t know of anything, Buffy. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though.”

Buffy snorted derisively. Why was everyone trying to placate her? Why did everyone think it would be ‘ _fine’_? It was not fine! ‘Fine’ had hopped the last train to Clarksville, and was _not_ meeting her at the station. She tapped down her annoyance and frustration and turned to go – this was accomplishing absolutely nothing. “Okay, well, see you later.”

“W-wait… I’ve got something for you,” he called, moving over to pick up a package from the coffee table. “For your birthday,” Angel clarified, holding it out for her. “I know it’s early, but...”

Buffy turned back and looked at it warily, remembering some of Angelus’ more gruesome ‘gifts’. “You didn’t have to,” she demurred, not reaching for it.

“Go ahead and open it,” he urged, stepping closer, still offering it to her.

Buffy thought about declining, but she did still want Angel to detail the rest of his travels – she needed to know the truth. With her nerve steeled, she took the package and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a leather-bound book. ‘ _Sonnets from the Portuguese’_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her brows furrowed. “I don’t speak Portuguese,” she pointed out, looking up at Angel.

“It’s in English,” he assured her as Buffy began flipping through the slim tome.

“Oh, good. That’ll make it slightly easier to understand,” she agreed. “Thank you. It’s… lovely.” She could use it to remind herself how much her love life sucked for those times she was feeling particularly masochistic. That constituted ‘lovely’, right?

“You really like it?” he asked hopefully, an almost boyish gleam shining in his dark eyes.

“Sure. Books are always at the top of my wish list, especially ones in English. It’s my favorite language.” ‘ _We were never friends.’_

“Then why'd you seem more excited last year when you got a severed arm in a box from Spike?” he wondered, his shoulders drooping slightly.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Is everything a competition between you two?” she questioned. “Should I expect a copy of ‘War and Peace’ to arrive in the mail from him now?” ‘ _As if Spike would ever give me a book for my birthday!’_

“Would you like that better?” Angel asked, concerned.

She snorted and turned to go. “Thank you for the thoughtful gift, Angel. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” he said again, moving quickly and slipping between her and the door, blocking her path. “Maybe we could… um, you know, figure it out? Your problem… not the sonnets.”

Buffy took an automatic step back from his looming presence and looked up to meet his eyes. A flash of fear ran through her. He was so much stronger than she was now; if he didn’t step aside and let her pass, she couldn’t make him. She shook herself, inwardly rolling her eyes at the idea of it. This was _Angel_ – he wasn’t going to hurt her – he was offering to _help_. And she could really use some help. Her shoulders slumped. “How?”

“I don’t know… why don’t you tell me everything that’s going on and maybe something will come to me. O-or I could ask around, you know… in the alleys or at Willy’s?”

“Maybe asking demons about things that make Slayers weak isn’t the best idea – it might give them ideas,” she pointed out.

“Right,” he agreed sheepishly, ducking his head and giving her a self-deprecating smile. “But maybe I can think of something… if I had all the facts.”

Buffy sighed. What could it hurt?

Angel waved a hand at the couch in invitation. She turned, preceding him back inside and plopping down on one end of the ‘L’ shaped sofa. It honestly felt good to get off her feet. Her legs felt heavy, almost leaden. All this walking, a thing she was normally an awarding-winning pro at, was starting to get old all of a sudden.

“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” Angel asked, looking at her hopefully.

Buffy’s stomach didn’t quite rumble, but it was a close thing. Her jelly sandwich, sans peanut butter, was long gone, but she wasn’t quite hungry enough to brave whatever Angel thought of as a snack.

“No, I’m good,” she replied, shielding her tummy with the book and willing it to stillness.

“Oh, okay. So, tell me everything,” he suggested, taking a seat next to her.

Too close. He was too close. And he smelled really good. And she needed a hug. And she knew his arms were strong and his shoulders were broad, perfect for hugging. She could lay her head against the smooth, cool hardness of his bare chest and just let him hold her for a little while. She needed someone to listen and say none of this was her fault. She needed someone to declare, ‘Ah-ha’ or ‘Eureka!’ or whatever they say when they figure out the answer, so she could fix it. She’d even take one of Giles’ ‘Oh, dear lords’ at this point, but he wouldn’t say that, because he wasn’t even looking for answers.

Except she didn’t even know Angel’s – or Liam’s – last name. She didn’t know his favorite food or favorite color or what kind of music he liked – other than tragic opera. And, clearly, he didn’t know her – the book she was using as a shield over her growling stomach was proof of that. They’d never been friends… they never would be. And they couldn’t be more. Not now. Not ever again. She knew both too much about him and not enough for them to be more. They were, well, co-workers, she supposed.

Buffy cleared her throat and looked at the fireplace, which had burned down to just glowing embers while Angel had been sleeping. “Okay, so, I’m not sure what else to tell you—”

“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” Angel interrupted, standing up.

“Yes, with the sureness,” Buffy replied with a bit of exasperation, and Angel sat back down, a tiny bit closer. Her brows furrowed. She would’ve slid away to keep a more comfortable distance, but Buffy was already against the armrest. She decided to just keep going, see if they could figure this out. “I just feel tired and weak,” she continued trying to explain. “I couldn’t lift Spike into the Cherokee today – later, I couldn’t even—”

“Should you be lifting him at all?” the vampire interrupted. “I mean… that could be how you caught what he has in the first place. Maybe he should be quarantined.”

“Spike is part of my family! I’m not sending him off to Siberia!” Buffy shot back, her ire suddenly up. What was with all the interruptions, anyway? She didn’t interrupt him when she was interviewing him, did she? Okay, well, maybe she did… a little. She sighed.

Angel held his hands up in surrender. “No one said, ‘Siberia,’” he pointed out. “Just… you know… not all over you.”

Buffy pointedly eyed the small swatch of couch fabric between them. She opened her mouth with a hot retort when Angel spoke again, “I’m sorry! Forget the whole idea… just… tell me more,” he encouraged, his brown eyes soft with concern.

Buffy’s anger fizzled. She was too tired and desperate for answers to argue, so she kept going, “It might not be anything infectious, at all. It could be a spell or a curse or a hex. Giles doesn’t think my Calling is suddenly a wrong number, that the Powers have figured out there are two Slayers now, but I’m not sure—”

“How would that affect Spike?” the brunette wondered.

Buffy shrugged. “I don’t know… maybe they figure if I’m not the Slayer, I don’t need a demon-killing dog? Who knows how they think? They’re pretty big with the randomness. I’m grasping, total straws, I know, I’m just so confused,” she admitted, dropping her head and rubbing her eyes tiredly.

Angel reached out and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder then began rubbing her neck with strong, sure fingers. She used to like how that felt, how he could soothe her with his touch. Now, she shuddered, remembering his horrifying story of how he’d broken Dru, made her insane. Those hands had done that, those arms, those broad shoulders. And those hands would’ve done the same to her if she’d been a little weaker… weaker, like she was now.

Her stomach began to roil, but not from hunger. She started to pull away, when he suddenly dug powerful fingers into her tight muscles. It felt like a Vulcan nerve pinch, sending pain shooting down her arm and making her head swim.

“Ow!” she gasped, flinching and flinging an elbow up to push his arm away.

“I’m sorry… I just—”

“Have you not been listening?” she demanded, shooting up to her feet, relieved to have his hands off her. “Not at Slayer strength here.”

Angel stood, too, reaching out to take her arm, but she took a quick step back out of reach. Her heel caught on carpet in front of the fireplace and she stumbled backwards, all her reflexes slowed, her coordination decidedly uncoordinated. She nearly fell, but the vampire was there in the next moment, keeping her head from cracking against the stone mantel, steadying her.

“Buffy!” he exclaimed in concern, getting her back on her feet. “Are you okay?”

He was too close. Much, much too close. His hand was in the small of her back. Too intimate. Too disturbing. Buffy stiffened beneath this touch and cleared her throat. “I better be going,” she announced flatly, pulling away from the vampire, heading for the door.

“I thought we could talk more,” Angel said hurriedly, rushing to stay next to her.

“I… I think I better just go. I’m tired,” the Slayer excused as she kept walking toward the doors, not looking at him.

“D-do you want me to walk you home?” Angel offered hopefully, stepping up closer again.

Something inside the Slayer exploded and she whirled on him. “What did you think was gonna happen here, Angel?”

“I – ummm…” he stammered, taken aback by her vehemence.

“Did _you_ do this to me? To Spike? Is this you making me helpless so I’d turn to you, fall into your arms, so you could be the hero?” she demanded hotly.

“What? No! I’d never hurt you!” he defended.

“But you’d hurt Spike – maybe it just spread,” she accused with narrowed eyes. “Is that why you want me to send him away?”

“Buffy! You’re being paranoid. I would never—”

“Oh, now I’m paranoid, too?” she huffed. “If you did something to my dog, I will kill you,” she threatened, her face flushed with righteous anger.

“I didn’t do anything to your damn dog!” Angel growled back, flinging his arms out in exasperation. “I’m trying to help you! I would never hurt you. I love you.”

Buffy stared at him, panting for air, her heart racing, the book of sonnets still clutched in one hand. How could he say that he loved her? He didn’t even _know_ her. And she didn’t know him. She still didn’t know if he’d purposely used her to free Angelus. Was Angel just another man in her life who’d claimed love and then walked away – in a manner of speaking – leaving her filled with shame and guilt? Leaving her heartbroken? Leaving her life in ruins?

Did he think she’d let any of that happen again?

“I don’t think you know the meaning of that word,” Buffy said finally, her voice barely a whisper.

“Buffy…” he cajoled, taking another step closer. “You used to love me.”

A knife twisted in her chest and tears welled unbidden in her eyes. She blinked frantically to keep them from falling. “I didn’t know what love was, either,” she admitted with a small shrug. “Maybe I never will.”

She turned then, just in time to keep him from seeing a tear roll down her cheek, and headed out into the night. To her immense relief, he didn’t follow.

Out on the street, Buffy swiped the tears from her face and took a deep, calming breath. She squared her shoulders and tapped into her Slayer-stubbornness to push all those jumbled emotions down. She didn’t have time for a pity party – the mission came first. She turned and started walking again, knowing what her next destination had to be.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy banged her fists against the heavy wood, shrieking her frustration to the world. She felt like a damsel for the first time in years, like Fay Wray pounding feebly against King Kong.

The Slayer turned, leaned back against Giles’ front door, and slid to the ground, exhausted and utterly defeated. She hugged her knees to her chest and fought hard against the tears that were gathering behind her eyes. She’d tried kicking his door down to get to those books about the Guardian of the Twilight, tried ramming it with her shoulder, tried running as fast as she could and hurling herself at it. Nothing she’d done had budged it even a little. Now her feet hurt, and her shoulder, her hip, her elbow, and the side of her head. Bruises bloomed on her hands, punctuated by bleeding scrapes and swelling knuckles – from fighting a door! _A door!_ But of all her injuries, perhaps the things hurt most of all were her pride and confidence, which were feeling as downtrodden as her heart.

She was the Slayer! It had been her identity for nearly three years, so long that her life before meeting Merrick seemed like a far-away dream. And now she couldn’t kick down a stupid door. She couldn’t load her sick dog into the Jeep. She couldn’t even throw a ball. She had to find out what was happening to her and Spike; she had to fix it, since, clearly, no one else would.

Buffy pushed herself back up to her feet, rubbing her battered and aching shoulder and gasping as a sharp pain stabbed her lower back, determined to get those books. She just didn’t know what else to do, where else to look for answers. She walked around to the side of the building, found an opening in the hedge, and slipped up next to one of the ground-floor windows. “When the door won’t splinter, shatter a window,” she muttered.

Turning her back on the building, she lined her elbow up with one of the panes and pulled it forward, preparing to drive it through the glass. A split-second before Buffy made good on her plan, she heard a shrill, desperate call for, “Help!” come from the back of the apartment building. Without thinking, she pushed through the short hedge, stumbling as her feet were snared by the thick branches. She caught herself before falling, got her feet disentangled from the bushes, and began running toward the sound.

The Slayer’s stake was in her hand by the time she found the source of the cry – a vampire with its fangs buried in the throat of a girl she thought she recognized from school. Buffy didn’t hesitate, despite her aches and pains, her muted reflexes and diminished speed, she closed on the pair, drawing the weapon back to strike. The vampire must’ve heard her coming, though, because he spun, dropping his meal. As he turned, he struck out with his arm and swatted the stake from the Slayer’s grip as if she were a child holding a lollypop.

Buffy gasped in shock, watching it tumble through the air in the dim glow of a distant streetlight, and land in a deep shadow on the thick lawn. Buffy’s attention was back on the vamp in a millisecond, her fist connecting with his jaw. She cried out as pain shot up her arm like a hot poker, numbing her hand and exploding like a fireball in her shoulder. The vampire chuckled and returned the favor. Buffy’s head whiplashed to the side, her vision blurred, but she could still see the ground rushing toward her at – hopefully not literal – breakneck speed.

New and exciting pain splintered through Buffy’s neck and shoulder as she landed in the grass, her breath stolen by the atomic bomb that had just detonated inside her. She moaned and writhed on the dew-damp turf, trying to clear her vision and get the pain down to something merely unbearable. She could hear the vamp laughing smugly, hear the girl he’d been feasting on moaning, still alive. Neither one of them would be alive much longer, though – not if she didn’t get her shit together right NOW.

Buffy rolled onto her stomach and began to crawl for the shadows where she thought her stake went. She could hear the vamp’s steps, heavy and unhurried, gaining on her.

“Not so fast, little girl,” he chuckled, reaching down and grabbing Buffy up by the scruff of the neck like an errant kitten.

The Slayer swung at him wildly, connecting with elbows and feet, but he just kept laughing, shaking her in his vise-like grip. She took in his features through the terror – curly red hair that fell to his shoulders, his golden eyes were surrounded by a sea of freckles, his snarling lips and sharp teeth were coated in blood. Not a fledge, too controlled and calculating, dangerous and strong.

“Kitty wants to play? Should’ve just said so. We can play, little girl,” he offered lewdly. “Can play for _hours_.”

The Slayer scrabbled at his arm, scratching his flesh, drawing blood, but it only made him tighten his hold. She tried to pry his fingers from around her neck, but she could barely lift even one, let alone loosen the ginger’s bruising grip. She was powerless.

_Powerless._

The thought sent a torrent of freezing water cascading down her spine, forming a ball of icy terror in her gut.

Buffy’s pain was excruciating. Her fear was worse. In that moment, dangling from his crushing grip like fish on a hook, Buffy did something she hadn’t done in recent, or even distant, memory. She screamed for help. She screamed like a damsel. She screamed like a little girl, a normal, terrified, helpless child.

“Oh, yeah, I love it when they scream,” the vampire rasped with a lecherous chuckle as he turned and began walking with Buffy. He paused to grab the barely conscious girl he’d been dining on, and dragged her along in their wake as Buffy continued to shriek wildly, calling for help, writhing and struggling against him with every ounce of adrenaline and cold terror inside her. Pain splintered through her with every punch she landed. She was sure her arms were broken, her hands crushed, her shoulders dislocated. But the vampire just kept walking toward a dark, sheltered stand of trees, laughing at her feeble blows, enjoying her terror.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting siren rent the air, making Buffy wince and the vampire drop his two victims in order to cover his ears. The klaxon continued, getting even louder, closer, making the red-headed vampire snarl in pain and move away, his super-hearing working against him. The Slayer wasted no time. She stumbled unsteadily back to her feet and went to the other girl, shakily urging her to her feet, as well.

“C’mon! Let’s go!” someone called frantically, his voice barely audible over the screech of the horn.

Buffy looked up to see the short brunette boy from the library earlier, Jonathan. He was holding up a cross and an air-horn, aiming both of them toward the snarling vampire, who still had his arms up, ducking his head and covering his ears. Buffy and the other girl held to each other, each staggering but somehow keeping the other from falling, as they lurched toward the boy, taking refuge behind his cross and wailing alarm. Jonathan stayed between them and the vampire, backing up as Buffy and the original victim made their way toward the street and the slim hope of safety which the lights and passing cars there promised.

“We need to hurry,” Jonathan urged them. “I’m almost out of air.”

Buffy nodded and did her best to pick up the pace, heading for Revello and the true safety of home. She didn’t breathe easy again until she and the girl tumbled through her front door, falling to the floor, Jonathan following a moment behind.

“Are you okay?” Buffy asked the girl as they disentangled from each other.

The frightened, ashen teen nodded, pulling her hand away from her neck and goggling at the blood on it. The bite had started to coagulate, no longer bleeding freely. “I-I think so,” she said in a shaky voice. “That guy… there was something wrong with his face… and he bit me!”

Buffy just snorted and pushed up to a seated position, leaning her back against the newel post at the foot of the stairs. She looked up at Jonathan, who was still holding the cross and the silent air-horn. He had closed the door and was standing with his back to it.

“Thank you,” Buffy whispered, unable to get her voice any louder, her body noticeably trembling with exhaustion and the aftermath of the terror-induced adrenaline surge. Without warning, a sob shook Buffy’s shoulders and tears she was unable to stem slipped from her eyes. She’d just been saved by Jonathan – the geekiest geek in all of geekdom – with an air-horn and a cross. She was the Slayer! She was the saver, not the savee! The kicker of demon ass, the duster of vampire dreams.

Buffy buried her face in her hands and sobbed, sitting on the floor of her foyer, feeling lost and confused, and just as terrified as she’d been dangling from the vampire’s hand. She was still dangling, her feet unable to touch the ground, her strength drained, her struggle futile. What if she wasn’t the Slayer anymore? What if they really had figured it out – ONE girl in all the world… not two. What if that one girl was Faith and now she was just… just Buffy again?

“No, no, no…” she cried into her hands, shaking her head and rocking inconsolably on the floor. “Please, no.”

Jonathan sighed and rolled his eyes, clearly dismayed. “Lois Lane never acted like this when Superman saved her,” the small brunette complained disappointedly.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kBhMLs).**

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**End notes:**

Thank you so much for reading!! We will be spending more time in Sunnydale in the next couple of chapters as Buffy tries to figure out what’s wrong with her and doggie-Spike, but never fear, we will check in with our favorite vampire next chapter.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	4. Powerless. Helpless. Alone.

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**Chapter Notes:**

Today’s a holiday in the US, so that gave me a little extra time, so I thought I’d post a *bonus* chapter this week! You may or may not thank me for this when you’re done.

**Timing.** Just to help keep track of how much time is passing, this is still the same day Buffy and Joyce had taken Spike to the vet, same day Buffy asked Giles and Angel for help, same day she tried to break into Giles’ apt, got attacked by a vampire, and saved by Jonathan. It’s now just now much later that night. She’s had quite a full day, hasn’t she?!

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like bacon for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

I also want to thank all the amazing people on the EF Ficstorming Facebook page who helped me find a decent view of Giles’ front door from the outside for the story board and help me figure out just how the heck you get to his door. It takes a village! You guys rock!

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**Chapter 4. Powerless. Helpless. Alone.**

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**_Mexico._ **

Nearly six hours after leaving his message for Buffy, Spike hadn’t heard anything back. He tried to tell himself that maybe they were still out. They could even be out of town on a holiday or something. Except he was sure school was in session, so that excuse didn’t really hold water. His nerves were getting frayed waiting, glancing down at the phone in the seat next to him every few minutes, checking for the little bars that indicated he had service or the words ‘You have one message’ on the small display.

Maybe he was all wrong about this. Buffy had told him to stay out of Sunnydale – to not come back – maybe she really meant it. Maybe her phone call and message was… what? He didn’t know. There were too many things he didn’t know – like how she’d gotten the sodding number in the first place.

“Bugger me,” he growled, running a hand back through his hair, making it stick up in new places and lay flat in others. He pulled off the highway, stopping just on the outskirts of the town of Hermosillo, and lit a cigarette to try and settle his nerves ** _._** It was one of the larger towns he’d been through, the capital of the state of Sonora, only about three hours from the Arizona border. It was also one of the rougher towns – or parts of it were – like any large city. Which, for a master vampire, was nothing more than an opportunity to fill his pockets with plenty of dosh courtesy of a local drug dealer or two. A little more risky than pickpocketing tourists – drug dealers had guns – but much more lucrative. More risk, but more reward.

With the fag dangling from his lips, he picked up the phone and checked the little bars. They indicated he had plenty of service. If that dozy bint would just call, it would come right through, but the phone remained stubbornly silent. He checked the little battery scale which said it still had a charge, though it was running low. He’d need to get a room somewhere and plug it in before long. He should’ve gotten that adapter thing so it could charge in the car – he’d get one next chance he got. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and looked out the window, having taken the sunshield down off the windscreen a few hours ago.

“Well, not calling the bitch back like a ponce,” Spike decided. He took another hit of nicotine, letting it filter from his nostrils like dragon’s breath. “Free sodding country, innit?” he continued. “Can come and go as I please – she doesn’t own the bleeding town, does she? Certainly not the boss o’ me. Got no boss anymore, do I? Do as I want, when I want, where I bloody want.”

He nodded to himself confidently, then looked down at the phone again. Why hadn’t she called him back!?

“Argh!” he growled in frustration, turning the phone off and shoving it back into the glovebox. “If I wanna holiday on the Hellmouth, then I’ll just go. Don’t need her sodding permission, do I? No, I bloody well don’t.”

Mind made up, Spike put the car back into drive and headed into town to fill his pockets with cocaine-laced pesos and probably greenbacks… a bottle or two of tequila wouldn’t go amiss either.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Joyce hurried down the darkened street, her shoes clacking loudly on the pavement. The wind had picked up, bushes and trees swayed in the dark, their branches reaching out, seeming to come alive, ready to snatch up unwary passersby. Dead, winter leaves from the few deciduous trees skittered past underfoot as if fleeing for their lives, fearful of those blustery, ominous shapes. Strange sounds filled the air, carried on the breeze, all seeming sinister at this late hour. She darted a glance over her shoulder into the cool night, and pulled her coat tighter across her chest, her mind filling with images of her daughter, the cuts and the bruises, the tears and shuddering sobs. If that could happen to Buffy, it could happen to anyone.

Joyce had come home from the gallery this evening to find three teenagers in her house. That wasn’t unusual. Only it wasn’t the three teens she’d normally expect. In her kitchen, a young girl she didn’t recognize at all was bleeding and light-headed, sipping on orange juice with trembling fingers. Their dog was keeping watch over the girl, as well as he could, sprawled next to his bowl and with a pile of uneaten food in it. In her living room, a young man – this one she thought she did recognize, perhaps from one of her too-regular visits to the high school – was lounging on the sofa watching an old Star Trek rerun. Upstairs, alone in the bathroom, bleeding and covered in swelling, purpling marks, her daughter… completely inconsolable.

It hadn’t taken long to ascertain the gist of what had happened. While Joyce helped Buffy into bed with a gentle hand and murmured words of love and support, she’d listened to the disjointed and panicked story of the night, straining to grasp every word through her daughter’s tears. With each passing moment, Joyce had felt herself grow more and more frightened, more and more confused, more and more hurt on her child’s behalf.

Once Buffy was safely tucked in and the tears had subsided into quiet sobs, Joyce had grabbed her things and taken Jonathan and the girl – Alison, she’d learned – home, leaving her distraught daughter alone. While she didn’t want to leave Buffy for longer than was necessary right now, she found herself turning left at the light, instead of right; towards the Watcher’s house, rather than her own. She wanted to have a word with him about whatever was going on with Buffy and Spike, because clearly something was going on!

Now, Joyce let out a small sigh of relief as she pushed the gate open that lead to the building’s courtyard and Mr. Giles’ apartment beyond. The wind settled within the protection of the walls and she made her way quickly down the steps of the courtyard and toward his door. As she stepped up to the front door, she could hear raised voices coming from within, both distinctly male. Though she couldn’t make out many words from inside, a few snippets floated out to her, ‘having doubts’, ‘too close’, ‘nothing to worry about.’

Joyce brushed her windblown hair from her face before knocking on the door. As soon as she did, the conversation from the other side came to an abrupt halt. She heard movement from inside, then someone she thought was Mr. Giles saying he’d be right there.

When the Watcher opened the door, he was still dressed in his work attire, though his tie was loosened, and his suit jacket had been shed. “Joyce. What a pleasant surprise,” Giles greeted her, though he didn’t sound too pleased, and did not step aside or invite her in.

“Mr. Giles,” she said formally, her eyes darting behind him to see who he’d been talking to, but seeing no one. “I need to speak to you about Buffy. May I come in?”

“Where are my manners? Certainly, please,” he invited, finally opening the door wider and allowing her inside. “What seems to be the trouble?” Giles asked, closing the door and following her into the apartment.

Joyce’s eyes flicked over the record collection and stereo in one corner, and her face flamed with the memory of the last time she’d been in this room – under the influence of ‘Band Candy’. She looked away from it, forcing her expression into neutrality, and turned to face the Watcher. “Buffy was attacked tonight.”

“Oh, my word! Is she alright?” he asked urgently, his expression holding real concern.

“She’s bruised and scraped up. I’m sure she’ll be okay, except… except that her strength seems to be gone. In fact, all of her Slayer abilities seem to have up and vanished,” Joyce informed him matter-of-factly, her shoulders pulling back as her chin lifted and her eyes met his. “Buffy tells me she’s already told you all about it. About Spike’s sudden problems, too. But according to her, you just brushed it off.”

Joyce took a deep breath, not wavering in her glare as it turned stern and accusing. “She could have died tonight, Mr. Giles. She was trying to save a girl from a vampire… if it wasn’t for another student who happened to come along right at that moment, they’d both …” The worried mother had to pause a moment and collect herself before finishing, “…both be dead.”

Joyce’s eyes were shimmering now, but remained granite hard. “I thought you were supposed to help her. As I understand it, it’s your job to watch over her as the Slayer, to keep her safe. I have to say, Mr. Giles, I’m far from impressed.”

Giles removed his glasses, pulled out a handkerchief, and began scrubbing them, moving away from his Slayer’s angry mother. “I do apologize,” he replied, not looking at Joyce. “I told her to take a few days off – her and Spike – that it was likely a virus or—”

“I’m not sure if you’ve ever _had_ a virus,” Joyce interrupted him curtly. “But unless there’s some special ‘Slayer virus’ that doesn’t include vomiting, fever, or runny noses, then neither she, nor Spike, have a virus. Is there a ‘Slayer virus’ that we should know about?”

“Errr, well, not that I’m aware of, no,” he admitted reluctantly, putting his glasses back on. “I genuinely do think it’s something that will pass with just a few days of rest, though.”

“And you base this on…?” she wondered, arching a brow at him.

Giles cleared his throat, his eyes averted. “Uh, well, that is … just a supposition.”

“A supposition,” Joyce repeated incredulously. “Is that the same as a wing and a prayer?”

“I… I suppose so,” he admitted.

“Well, I for one, would like something a little more substantial than that,” Joyce insisted.

“Yes... yes, of course. I’ll begin researching tonight and gather the others tomorrow and we’ll all start looking into it,” Giles assured her. “I’m certain there is a simple explanation and resolution to be found. In the meantime, Buffy should forgo patrolling – as I suggested.”

“She wasn’t patrolling when she was attacked. She was… well, she was here, trying to get in to borrow the books you have on Spike’s origins.”

“Here?” Giles’ brows went up and he looked around for signs of a break-in, seeing nothing out of place. “I told her I would bring them in tomorrow,” he related, walking over and picking up the two books from his desk.

“I guess that wasn’t good enough for her,” Joyce pointed out. “Which, honestly, should’ve been obvious to you,” she chastised. “Just like telling her to stop patrolling wasn’t good enough. That doesn’t change who she is inside – someone who wants to help others, protect them from danger, keep them safe. It’s not going to stop the monsters from coming, either. People get attacked in this town all the time, day and night, many of them right there in the high school where she spends most of her time!

“I would think you, out of all of us, should understand what being the Slayer means. She’s not the same girl she was before all this. She knows what’s out there now, she can’t just… just look the other way and pretend evil doesn’t exist.”

Giles offered her the books and she took them. “I do apologize. Again, I felt like…”

“It would pass,” Joyce cut him off tersely. “A lot of good that will do if she’s _dead_.”

Giles’ perfectly clean glasses were removed again and scrubbing renewed. “Indeed,” he agreed sheepishly.

Joyce huffed out an impatient breath and turned for the door. “Maybe you should try to find Faith, because I’m not letting my daughter or our dog out after dark until we find out what’s going on.”

Giles nodded, returning his glasses to his face. Again. “I will attempt to locate her,” he agreed, following his guest to the door.

Joyce opened the door, but paused before stepping out, turning back to face him. “Have you heard the term, ‘Mama Bear’?” she asked.

“Yes, I believe I understand the concept.”

“Do you?” she wondered, giving him a saccharine smile. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, it’s a sweet way to describe the fact that I’ll tear you open and eat your insides if anything happens to my little girl because you didn’t do your job.”

Giles’ eyes went comically wide. “I… will, uh, take that under advisement.”

“See that you do,” Joyce suggested before turning and stepping out of the apartment, Giles closing the door behind her.

Joyce paused on the step, turning her head and leaning back slightly so that she could listen more intently. It only took a couple of moments before she heard the second male voice speaking to Giles from inside. “No one can know that I’m here,” he said in what sounded like a British accent from very near the door. He must’ve just come from upstairs.

“No one does, I assure you,” Giles replied.

“Complete secrecy is imperative.”

“I understand,” Giles confirmed as both men moved further from the door, their voices becoming less distinct. Joyce furrowed her brows, trying to put meaning to what she heard, but finally gave up as the two men’s conversation trailed off into low mutters.

She turned to go, but suddenly remembered Buffy mentioning in her disjointed rambles that she’d left a book there on the stoop. Joyce was about to knock again and ask Giles if he’d seen it, when her eyes landed on the slim tome, off to one side, half-hidden in the shadows behind a flowerpot. She picked it up – Sonnets from the Portuguese. She put it with the books Giles had given her, and headed out of the courtyard and down the street toward her car, the dead leaves crunching beneath her feet.

Joyce kept a keen eye and ear out as she walked, but only the trees moved in the night. Inside the relative safety of the Jeep, she locked all the doors and finally let out a sigh, half relief and half exasperation. She’d once suggested that Buffy try to _not_ be the Slayer. It seemed ludicrous to her now, though she still wished – probably more often than she ought – that Buffy had never been Chosen. Nights like this brought that futile wish back full force.

Being the Slayer had changed her daughter. It was more than a physical change. Joyce could see it in every aspect of Buffy – her mind, her heart, her instincts, her spirit. Whatever was happening to her child now seemed to only affect her physical prowess, which meant she was a Slayer in the body of a petite, young woman… a girl, really, not yet eighteen.

Joyce shook her head and closed her eyes, her heart aching with worry and icy fear. She felt helpless. Her ‘Mama Bear’ instinct to protect her only child was strong, but she just had no idea where to direct her ire, how to help, how to keep her girl safe. And it was terrifying.

With the steadfast determination of a Summers, Joyce took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and started the Jeep. She’d just have to think of some way to help her daughter – there had to be an answer out there, she just needed to find it.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy jumped when the front door closed behind her mom, Jonathan, and Alison as they left the house. Hot pokers shot through her body, radiating out from her shoulders and stabbing into her lungs, making it painful to breathe. She tried to take shallow inhalations, but her tears wouldn’t allow it, her body demanded she take in deep shuddering gulps of air. Despite that, she felt like she was suffocating, drowning right there in her own bed, like there wasn’t enough oxygen. Everything hurt. There were bruises on top of scrapes on top of gouges on top of dislocations. She was sure things were broken inside her – more than just her heart.

The house was silent. The TV downstairs was off. There was no whirl of air conditioning or heat. Spike was downstairs, too far away to provide his loving comfort to her jumbled emotions, too far for her to even hear him breathing. The house creaked now and then, making its normal ‘house sounds’, but tonight they seemed louder than usual, somehow alien and restless.

The Slayer curled up beneath her comforter, her skin cold and clammy as uncontrollable shivers shook her ravaged body. She tried to take stock of the injuries, of the burning aches and jabbing pains, but there were just too many, and her mind was too muddled to sort them out anyway. She’d nearly died tonight. Again.

Somehow, nearly dying frightened her more than actually dying had. That wasn’t entirely true – it wasn’t the dying that had terrified her so, that had her body fighting off shock – it was the complete helplessness she’d felt as that vampire laughed and taunted her. There had been no thrall like with the Master – which had been bad enough. This time it had been a completely fair fight – and she’d lost. Utterly and completely. She’d been crushed, nearly strangled. She had been on the verge of being carried away to be…

Buffy shuddered and closed her eyes, her sobs starting up again in earnest. That vampire wouldn’t have just killed her. She didn’t want to think about what he would’ve done, but horrible visions flashed behind her lids despite her willing them away. She curled tighter into herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach, trying to hold herself together, trying not to think about what could’ve happened if Jonathan hadn’t saved her.

Her mind was still having trouble with that concept – Jonathan had saved her. That was just… _wrong_.

More shivers rolled through Buffy. She was freezing and sweating at the same time, unable to stop herself from shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Or like a frightened little girl. She wasn’t the Slayer anymore. She was just Buffy. Just a scared child needing to be saved from the monsters. And all anyone could say was that it would be all right. Just give it time. Her Watcher, her mother, even Angel – they patted her on the head and said it would ‘be all right’. It was not alright! Nothing would ever be all right again! She buried her face against her pillow as more sobs shook her slender frame. Each one brought a new wave of pain, but she couldn’t stop them, she hadn’t the strength to stop anything anymore.

Something outside her window moaned eerily and she jerked her head up to look, sending more knives slicing through her battered body. A shadowy form shifted in the trees and she froze, her wide, unblinking eyes glimmering in the dim light that filtered in from the hallway.

Her breathing did stop then, though her heart was thundering like a stampede of wild horses in her chest, the sound of her blood rushing in her veins a deafening cacophony in her ears. Buffy’s eyes were like saucers, her throat constricted, her mouth dry as she watched, unable to move, literally frozen in terror in her bed.

Another shadow came to life on the wall opposite her bed and her head jerked again, her eyes locked on the spot, waiting for more movement, trying to see what it was. A demon? A ghost? Something that would drag her away like that vampire and…

The Slayer’s battered body began to quake violently as she clutched the comforter as if it were a shield that could save her. She knew she needed to get up and turn on the light, or get up and run, but she couldn’t make her limbs move. She needed to look around the rest of the room, find out how many there were, _what_ they were, but she was terrified at what she might see. Her eyes remained glued on the wall as she waited… waited for the monster to move again.

Buffy tried to listen for the intruder – their footsteps or breathing – but she couldn’t hear anything other than the thudding of her own heart. She tried to find them with her Slayer senses, with the prickles that often accompanied a vampire or demon, but her whole body was tingling with unmitigated terror. She willed her eyes to look around, but they refused to move. There was nothing but fear. It gripped her like a vise, refusing to give her any control over her mind or body. Like an infection, it grew inside her, making her thoughts spiral deeper and deeper into the void, into the fright and panic.

Anyone or anything could walk right up to her and kill her right here, and there would be nothing she could do. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. She could only wait for the shadows to swallow her or for whatever was beyond the walls of her room, moaning and swaying, to attack her. To kill her. To leave her broken and bloody body for her mother to find.

Tears leaked from her eyes, blurring her vision as she watched and waited for death to come for her. She was going to die alone and afraid in her own bed. The monsters were coming, she could hear them outside. One banged against the house and she jumped again, her eyes relinquishing their vigil on the shadow and darting toward the sound. There was a loud crack in the yard, like the snapping of bones, which made her whimper involuntarily. Then another creaking moan, long and agonized, filtered in, and her eyes shifted again, staring out the window. A garbage can clanged from the street – toppled by more demons, no doubt. The vampire’s laughter from earlier rang in her ears and curdled her frozen blood. Was he there? Trying to get in? Trying to finish what he’d started?

_‘Vampires can’t get in,’_ she assured herself. _‘Other demons can, though,’_ her fear offered helpfully. She finally managed to swallow, though her mouth was devoid of saliva. She blinked and a flood of tears coursed down her flushed cheeks.

The world came into focus for a moment, the watery blur clearing. More arms swayed in the moonlight just outside, reaching for her, scraping against the house. Each sound, each shift in the shadows, each stirring of leaves, drained more strength from her limbs, leaving her paralyzed her with terror.

Buffy took a breath, forced it into her lungs, but couldn’t breathe out. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see what was out there, taunting her, mocking her. The monsters knew now – knew she wasn’t the Slayer – and they were coming for her. They were all coming!

Slowly and painfully, she pulled the comforter up higher, fighting with her body’s own defense mechanisms in order to lift it over her head. There was more than ‘fight or flee’, there was also ‘freeze’. Don’t move. Don’t give away your position to the predators. Don’t breathe. Don’t make a sound. Don’t scream. Don’t speak. Don’t blink.

But she was still too loud. Her heart was too loud. Her shallow breaths were too loud. The tears tumbling from her eyes were too loud. Her shivers were too loud.

It was too late to hide. Too late to freeze. She could feel eyes locked on her, their presence crawling over her skin like roaches, just waiting for their chance to devour Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.

No, not the Vampire Slayer. Buffy, the girl who wouldn’t make it to adulthood.

Beneath the cover, with her eyes clamped tightly closed, she forced more air into her lungs, knowing she needed to breathe. She had to find her focus – like Giles had been teaching her. Focus. Focus on something other than the fear, other than the pain and death that waited beyond her window. Another shuddering breath in, another trembling exhalation. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t get warm, couldn’t stop crying. She needed help. For the second time tonight she needed someone to save her from the monsters.

“Spike,” she rasped, trying to scream, but it was barely more than a stage whisper, not escaping the thick comforter. “Spike, help,” Buffy cried again, her voice cracking with the strain, her mouth dry as a desert, her throat swollen with bruises and clogged with panic. She took another breath, and forced it out. Another breath, gathering up every drop of courage she could find in her bruised and beaten body. One more deep inhale and Buffy propelled herself off the bed and onto the floor, away from the window, away from demonic eyes and grasping arms.

She landed on her shoulder, which exploded in white-hot fire. Buffy screeched, the sound ripped from her lungs as fire blossomed through her entire torso, shooting out like dragon’s breath through her body. She writhed on the carpet, tangled in the comforter, trapped, wrapped up like a burrito, as she fought again to find air and push down her panic. How could just breathing be so hard? She used to breathe all the time, but now… not so much. Like everything else, that ability seemed to have been stolen from her.

Trembling on the floor, entombed in her soft duvet, her sobs returned in earnest. “Help… please help me,” she gasped, fighting desperately to free herself. But no one heard her. No one came to help.

With no small amount of effort, she finally crawled from the cocoon of cotton, trying to keep her head down below the top of the mattress, out of sight of the predators that were licking their lips, waiting to pounce on the former Slayer, to even the score for all the demons she’d dispatched. The wind howled outside, turning every sound into a demon, every scrape of tree limb against the house into an attack, every swaying branch into talon-tipped claws reaching for her.

_Powerless_.

Buffy hid on the floor beside her bed as more frantic, painful sobs shuddered through her body, feeling like the entire world had turned its back on her. She’d given everything to the world, and now all it gave back were hollow assurances that everything would ‘be all right’. Lip service. Rhetoric. Empty promises. Lies!

“Spike, please,” Buffy called again into the dark, but her dog, the healer of her heart, her stalwart companion and defender, was too far away down in the kitchen, too exhausted himself, to hear her or to come to her aid.

“Spike…” she whimpered desperately, but this time her bleary, jumbled, panic-stricken mind conjured a vision not of her best friend, but of her mortal enemy.

Her swollen, watery eyes suddenly darted up to the mirror above her dressing table. Postcards. _Spike_. Spike wouldn’t lie to her. He wouldn’t placate her or sugarcoat anything. He’d tell her the truth – she had to know the truth before she died. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to bring this down on herself? She had to know… why?

Steeling her nerve against the fear, Buffy pushed herself up using the bed, her body painfully protesting every move. She snatched the last postcard from her mirror and dropped back down onto the floor, out of sight of the monsters beyond the window. She yanked at the cord on her phone, tumbling it down from the bedside table with a too-loud jangling of the bell. She fumbled at the handset clumsily, finally managing to grip it in her trembling fingers. Another deep breath to steady herself. And one more. Buffy swiped the tears from her eyes brusquely and tilted the postcard so she could see the numbers in the dim glow from the hall. Frantically, she began to punch them in to her phone.

“Please answer, please answer,” she prayed, her voice breaking, a barely audible croak.

“If you need me t’ tell you…” Spike’s voice picked up finally, making Buffy’s heart splinter, her hope dying on the vine.

“Spike, please,” she cried into the phone as his greeting still played. Her voice cracked and hitched as she spoke, some words coming out brashly, others barely audible. “Pick up! Please! I need to know… I can’t… it’s not fair! I did everything I was supposed to! I was a good Slayer! I tried to be a good daughter! I swear I did! Why is this happening? Am I a bad person? Is it because of Angel? I… know I shouldn’t have… I set Angelus free. Is that why? I gave him…” A soul-deep sob tore from her throat. She’d given everything to Angel – to a vampire. Was that why they were taking it all back now? Because she’d sullied herself, willingly gave him not just her body but her love? 

“Please tell me… tell me why? It’s all gone – I can’t… my strength… everything, gone! Not the Slayer anymore. So scared! Always thought… it’d be you… but they’re coming,” she sobbed incoherently, her words stuttering and slurred. “Can’t fight, can’t… they’ll kill me! Spike can’t help, can’t hear me! Oh, God! They’ll kill him too!” she gulped, the realization only then hitting her. They’d kill her dog too – all his strength was gone, just like hers! They would rip him to shreds, tear out his sweet, loving heart, make him cry and whimper and… “Oh, God! Oh, God! Spike … noooooooooo!!!” Her anguished shriek was raw and wild, filled with the torment of a thousand fallen angels as her own heart was sliced to ribbons in her chest.

“God! Help us! Please! They’re coming and I can’t stop them… they’re right outside and… God, Spike! What do I do?”

_‘Beeep!’_

Another sob tore through her, jolting her beaten and bruised body as she stared at the phone, its outline little more than a blur in her trembling hand, the line gone dead. Outside, the demons growled and moaned with the wind, battering the house, coming for her: the girl who was the Slayer no more. Coming for her friend, the Guardian of the Twilight.

Buffy began to crawl for the door. She had to get to Spike, had to keep him safe somehow! She couldn’t let the monsters take him, couldn’t let them hurt him! He hadn’t done anything wrong! This was her fault, not his! “Spike,” she tried to call again, but her lungs were tight, constricted with fear. “Hide!”

She knew he hadn’t heard her. She could barely hear her own croaking voice over the sound of monsters scratching at the walls, at the windows.

Buffy tried to go to him, to make him hear her, but she barely made it to the hallway before she collapsed in bitter, excruciating exhaustion, all the energy she’d dredged up completely spent. She tried with all her might to find more, to reach deep and pull out any tiny spark of strength, but there was nothing left, not a single flicker. With the phone, its cord stretched to the limit, and postcard still in her hands, Buffy curled into a ball, shivering violently and weeping dismal, terrified tears.

“All my fault,” she muttered, as she clutched the phone and postcard to her chest like lifelines, breathing in the lingering scent of tequila. The Slayer waited for the night to take her and prayed it would be happy with her blood, leaving her best friend be. It was the only hope she had left now.

_Powerless_. _Helpless. Alone._

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can[find it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kC1aTP)**

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**End notes:**

Of course, now that Spike has gotten pissed off and turned the phone off, Buffy calls, frantic and in need of help and a strong friend who will tell her the truth, not dole out placations. Can anything ever go right for them?

Thank you so much for reading!! We are going to be focusing more on Buffy and Sunnydale for a little while longer, but hang in there! Spike the vampire has not been forgotten.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	5. Jiggery-pokery

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**Chapter Notes:**

**Apologies:** For the lack of Spike T. Vampire here. We will get back to check on him in the next chapter. And, yes, I promise he will eventually turn his stupid phone back on. Hang in there!

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like bacon wrapped filet for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying, but I’ll get caught up this weekend.

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

* * *

**Chapter 5. Jiggery-pokery**

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* * *

**_Sunnydale._ **

The house was peaceful when Joyce got home from Giles’; silent and dark. She set the books down on the table in the foyer with a sigh, hoping they’d help find some answer to whatever was going on with her daughter and their dog. She made a quick check on Spike, who was still sprawled out in the kitchen, where he’d been when she’d left with Jonathan and Alison. His food was untouched, but he’d at least lapped up some water. She crouched down and stroked his head comfortingly, her worry only multiplying. He raised up to nuzzle her hand affectionately, before sighing drowsily and dropping his big head back down onto the cool floor and closing his eyes.

“We’ll figure this out, boy… for both of you,” she assured him, before standing back up and heading upstairs to check on her girl. 

“Buffy!” Joyce exclaimed, hurrying up the final steps when she saw her daughter on the floor in the doorway of her room.

The girl moaned when Joyce touched her shoulder, trying to roll away from the pain.

“Buffy, honey, wake up. Are you all right? What happened?” Joyce asked worriedly, trying to rouse her without hurting her.

“Mom?” the Slayer croaked, trying to blink her swollen, crusted eyes open and raise her head.

“I’m right here, honey,” Joyce assured her as she tried to help her to a sitting position. “You’re freezing,” she observed, placing a hand on Buffy’s forehead and finding it damp and clammy. “What happened?”

Accepting her mom’s help to sit, Buffy gasped, grabbing for her injured shoulder. The phone she’d been clutching slipped from her hand and was yanked back into the room by its overstretched cord. The handset bounced over the floor then came to rest near the base, which jingled lightly in the quiet room, then went silent again. The girl’s heart jumped as she turned to see what the sound was, the shivers that had nearly subsided returning with another spike of adrenaline-fueled fear.

“Buffy –” Joyce began again.

Suddenly the last hours came back into focus for Buffy, the sleep and exhaustion receding slightly, clearing the fog from her mind. “Spike! Where’s Spike?” the Slayer demanded, her eyes wide, voice rough as sandpaper, the words searing her bruised throat. “Is he… is he okay? Did they get him?”

“Did who get him?”

“The monsters!” Buffy squeaked, trying to scream, her eyes darting up and down the hall, searching for her dog.

“What monsters?”

“The ones that were…” Buffy turned and looked around her bedroom and at the window. Outside, trees swayed and bent in the wind, the leaves creating dancing shadows in the moonlight, the bare branches waving like claws, reaching for the sky. They moaned when limbs bowed too far and scratched against the house and each other. With her door fully open allowing more light in, she could see all around her room – there was nothing there, nothing but her and her mom. No monsters. No demons. No death reaching for her.

“I… I thought… there were… monsters coming after… us,” she stammered, confused. Her mind whirled, her head ached – lots of things ached, actually. Had she dreamed all that? Imagined the monsters?

“Spike’s fine. He’s sleeping downstairs,” Joyce assured her.

Buffy closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall as she sent a silent prayer of thanks into the heavens. A fresh wave of tears burned her reddened eyes, this time in relief. Spike was alright. Her friend, her dog, hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t been attacked. He was okay.

“Buffy, what is going on?” her mom asked again, this time more sternly.

The tears leaked from beneath Buffy’s closed lids, joining the salty tracks of the million that had come before. Not all of it had been her imagination. The vampire attack. Jonathan. Her Slayer strength gone. Even if the monsters hadn’t come tonight, they would come. “I don’t think I’m the Slayer anymore,” she rasped in a hoarse whisper.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce sighed in sympathy. “We’re going to find out what’s going on and fix it.”

Buffy opened her eyes and looked at her mom, who was kneeling next to her. The light was on in the bathroom behind Joyce making her windblown hair look like a halo in the soft glow. “How?” Buffy asked desperately as despair trickled down her cheeks, her body trembling with relentless shivers.

Joyce’s heart splintered in her chest as tears threatened behind her own eyes. She wasn’t used to seeing her daughter like this – lost and afraid. Buffy hadn’t seemed this broken even after killing Angel, or at least she hadn’t let Joyce see it. Joyce blinked and swallowed, then cleared her throat. “Mr. Giles is going to look into it. We’ll figure it out, Buffy,” she swore, trying to sound confident. “But you need to get some rest. Let’s get you to bed.”

Buffy nodded dejectedly, not knowing what else to do or say. Her body was still quivering, making her heart skip and jump in her chest, as her mom helped her gingerly to her feet.

“What’s this?” Joyce asked, reaching for the postcard still clutched in Buffy’s hand.

The Slayer yanked it away, cradling it protectively to her chest. “Nothing.”

Joyce raised a brow but didn’t say anything as she got her daughter back into bed. She switched on the light and gathered up the covers from the floor, replacing the phone on the nightstand, then tucked Buffy in like she used to as a child.

“I promise you we’ll figure this out, Buffy,” Joyce said again, touching a kiss to her forehead. “Everything will be all right.”

Buffy sniffed and nodded. “Thanks, Mom,” she murmured, pulling the cover up beneath her chin. When Joyce reached to turn off the lamp, Buffy snapped, “Leave it on!” with a tinge of panic in her voice.

“Okay… get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning,” Joyce advised as she headed for the door.

As soon as her mother started down the stairs, Buffy pulled the covers up over her head and curled into a ball beneath them. She tried to sort out what had been real and what had been her imagination. She breathed in the sharp tang of tequila that still suffused Spike’s postcard. She’d called him – that had to be true. What had she said? It was so jumbled in her mind now… but had she told the Slayer of Slayers that she was weak and helpless? Had she just rung the dinner bell for William the Bloody to come notch another victory in his belt?

“Oh, God… what have I done?”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Joyce trudged back downstairs, feeling defeated and exhausted. She kept telling Buffy everything would be all right, but she had no idea how that was going to happen. There had to be something she could _do_. Something besides making empty promises.

She picked up the books she’d brought from Giles’, looking first at the slim volume of poetry. She opened the cover and read the note from Angel, sighing and rolling her eyes. Joyce knew Buffy was working on that project involving him, and she knew that was important, but she really just wished he’d leave town and never come back.

Joyce slipped the book beneath a couple of old magazines that no one had tossed out yet, then took the other two larger tomes with her into the kitchen. She’d heard stories from Buffy, Willow, and Xander about ‘research parties’ before – was it still a ‘party’ if there was just one person doing the researching?

She shrugged as she set the books down on the breakfast bar. She could make it a party with a glass or two of wine, which she could really use right now. No. Coffee. Coffee would be better, she decided, stepping around to get some brewing.

The Mr. Coffee machine gurgled and dripped, filling the room with the familiar scent of sleep-replacing caffeinated nirvana. As she waited, Joyce’s attention was drawn by Buffy’s bookbag, which had been left on the counter. Her eyes narrowed, her tired mind whirring sluggishly to life, ideas forming slowly without the aid of the still-brewing coffee.

“Spike,” she said aloud, reaching for the bag. The big dog lifted his head and yawned, looking at her. “Not you, honey – go back to sleep,” she assured him, pulling Buffy’s journal out of the bag.

She bit her lip, flipping through the pages of notes from Buffy’s meetings with Angel, then past lots of blank pages, until she found what she was looking for at the very back. The number that Buffy had deciphered off that last postcard – Spike’s phone number. She stared at it for several long minutes, long enough for the coffee to finish brewing. Joyce tried to think of pros and cons to her idea. She filled a cup with coffee, adding in sugar and cream, then drank a sip, still considering.

The wheels in her mind clicked and clacked and rattled around, trying to decide. Finally, she set her mug down and picked up the phone. “What could it really hurt at this point?” she muttered to herself as she dialed the number.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

The night was interminable for Buffy. Minutes felt like hours. She tossed and turned, fluffing her pillow then flattening it, but always, _always_ , staying hidden beneath the shield of her blankets. Every muscle and joint ached, daggers stabbed into her back and shoulder, and her throat felt like she had a noose pulled tight around her neck. The shivers had settled slightly, but she still felt them trembling lightly through her chest, making her heart skip and jump periodically.

She tried to sleep, as her mom had suggested, but it was elusive. She tried counting sheep, then started listing off all the names on the tombstones in Restfield, then she just started imagining all the ways she could die, which really wasn’t helpful at all. The few times she managed to nod off, nightmares about a chuckling, ginger vampire on ice skates chasing her through endless fields of yellow and white flowers would jolt her awake.

Finally, she gave up on sleep and began going over what could be causing all this – which was where her mind always ended up anyway. Theories and ideas bounced around the Slayer’s overtaxed, exhausted brain. Her thoughts rolled around three different scenarios in a ceaseless circle of unanswerable questions.

If this was a spell, then maybe Willow could do a counter-spell and break it. Same with hexes and curses, assuming there were such things as counters to them. Buffy wasn’t entirely sure what the differences were between the three. Maybe Willow could even track it back to the source. Buffy had no idea what was possible. All this magic stuff was kinda new to all of them. Ms. Calendar and Amy had been the two people they knew who had been well versed in the whole magic thing. Of course, neither of them was exactly available to help.

If it was an infection that Spike had somehow gotten from a demon or vampire, then maybe it would pass in a few days, like Giles said. She’d feel a lot better about that theory if there was some mention of such things in some book somewhere. She still needed the books about the Guardian dogs from Giles – she’d just have to go get them after daybreak.

The last possibility frightened her more than any of the others she’d thought of, though. Had her Calling been a wrong number? Some clerical error at the home office? Was her ‘job’ unraveling like her father’s quarterly projections?

In her mind, she could hear the angels discussing it, sounding oddly like Giles, only stuffier, _‘Oh, you said Sumners, not Summers? I’m terribly sorry, old chap. Just give me a moment and we’ll have it straightened right round in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. There we are – Summers has been deactivated… don’t need Sumners after all – got this Lehane lass. All’s well now. Pip pip, Cheerio.’_

What if that was it? What if she really wasn’t the Slayer anymore? In her cocoon of warm cotton and soft sheets, sobs shook Buffy’s shoulders as hot tears streaked her flushed cheeks. Who was she if not the Slayer? How could she just be Buffy again with all she knew, all she’d experienced? She’d died, for heaven’s sake! She’d killed the Master, brought forth Angelus, and sent Angel to hell. She’d survived Spike and Drusilla, the Order of Taraka, and an Incan mummy. She’d fought vampires and witches, demons of every type, and students possessed by hyenas.

And now, what? She should just… forget all that? Stop fighting? Stop… caring? Turn a blind eye to the horrors of the Hellmouth, to the death and destruction? Become one of the blind sheep that can’t see what’s right in front of them? Go back to being a vacuous cheerleader whose only worry was getting the best date to the prom and making sure her dress was the talk of the school?

“How? How can I?” she croaked out through her tears. She remembered her first day at Sunnydale High, meeting Giles, telling him she had ‘moved on’ from being the Slayer, that she was ‘retired’. “But I’m not that girl anymore… I’m the Slayer. I… I can’t be that girl anymore. I can’t!” she rasped into her pillow, her tears coming harder, the trembling in her chest ratcheting back up.

Very nearby, Spike whined, trying to nuzzle beneath the covers to find his hooman, trying to comfort her, which only made Buffy cry harder. Were they punishing him for just being unlucky enough to belong to her? Had the Powers taken his joy away because of her? Was this all her fault?

“Spikey,” Buffy burbled through her tears, lifting the covers, wrapping her arms around his thick neck, and pressing her damp cheeks to the top of his head. “Oh, Spike… I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I never want to hurt you… God, I’m sorry.”

He whined softly, gently licking at the skin of her arms and hands — whatever he could reach — doing anything he could to make her feel better.

Buffy scooted away from the edge and pulled the cover back for the first time in hours, urging him to get up on the bed with her. She lightly tugged on his collar, ignoring the pain that blistered through her torso with the movement. He looked at her quizzically, his head tilting to the side in question.

“It’s okay, just this once,” she allowed, patting the bed and pulling gently on his collar. “Come on… can you get up here?”

Spike managed to get one front foot up, then the other, and she buried her hands in the thick fur on his shoulders and heaved as he struggled forward kicking with his back feet, trying to find purchase. Finally, with what seemed a monumental and agonizing effort on both of their parts, his whole body flopped up onto the bed beside her. 

Buffy covered them both up and snuggled up against his warm body and soft fur with a sigh. “We’ll figure this out,” she assured him. “We have to.”

With her friend curled up against her, the Slayer finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. No bad dreams woke her, no demons chased her, the monsters being kept at bay by the healer of her heart, the Guardian of the Twilight.

Which isn’t to say that Buffy didn’t dream …

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy stood in the center of a post-apocalyptic street and looked around a black-and-white world. It was like one of those old movies about World War II, done well before anyone had even _heard_ of Technicolor. Even she was colorless, drab and grey. There were small fires burning in bombed-out buildings, the flames flickering like malevolent eyes in the glassless windows. Old, demolished, abandoned cars lined the road. Some on their sides, others sitting at odd angles with a tire or two up on piles of rubble, some had been burned out, some were still on fire. In the far distance, smoke billowed up lazily, black plumes against the bleak sky. A tumbleweed rolled by, bouncing away down the cracked pavement, and lifeless leaves gathered in the gutters as if cringing away from the devastation around them.

Not far in front of her was what remained of the Eiffel Tower, broken and bent. Its huge metal girders twisted like a child’s toy. Part of the base had been uprooted and it teetered precariously on what remained attached to the ground, the steel creaking and moaning as if in pain with each gust of blustery wind that rocked it.

To Buffy’s right was the Louvre. Parts of the iconic pyramid had collapsed. Much of the glass was cracked and broken, scattered in glittering splinters over the courtyard, along with countless pieces of priceless art. Paintings littered the ground, frames smashed into matchsticks, canvases shredded. Sculptures that had survived centuries were strewn like tinker toys, some still recognizable, others little more than rubble. The statue of Nike, Winged Victory of Samothrace, lay in a chaotic heap of marble, utterly defeated, her wings shattered. The Mona Lisa was no longer smiling. Tears leaked from her eyes, rolling down the fragile canvas like turpentine, disfiguring her face more and more with each drop. 

As Buffy turned in a slow circle, she saw nothing but destruction in every direction. The Arc de Triomphe was toppled, crushing several small cars beneath its bulk. The Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris was ablaze with hungry, colorless flames rising into the dull, grey sky.

She walked over to a footbridge that crossed the river to find thousands of padlocks of every size and description hanging from the railings. They were all broken, dangling haphazardly, each one dripping black blood from the keyhole. Beneath them, piled on the bridge and overflowing into the river, were ghastly mounds of broken human hearts, all coated in the glistening blood of the ravaged locks.

Buffy watched the thick liquid flow over the mass of tattered flesh and stain the Seine as it trickled over the edge, wondering what could cause so much pain. As she stood there, another devastated heart fell from the bridge, splashing dismally into the river below. She lost sight of it as it sank into the gloomy depths, tears inexplicably pooling in her eyes, as if it were her own heartbreak she was witnessing. 

“Whooof!”

Buffy whirled around to find Spike bounding gaily up to her. Her mood lightened immediately, a bright smile washing away the misery in her expression. She hurried off the bridge to meet him, leaving the writhing, blood-soaked hearts behind.

“Spikey!” she called, kneeling down to pull him into a tight hug. He wiggled and waggled and licked at her face like the high-energy puppy he was. Buffy laughed and lifted her chin to keep from getting a mouth full of Spike-tongue as she roughed-up his fur, head to tail, like she knew he loved.

Just as she was standing up, another form slipped from behind one of the burning cars, moving like a wraith in the black-and-white ether. Buffy’s heart skipped and jumped as her eyes focused on the newcomer – Drusilla. The Slayer pulled a stake from her waistband and stood up, squaring off with the vampire.

“Stop right there,” the girl warned, raising her stake in threat.

Drusilla stopped in the middle of the street, pressing her palms together in front of her, as if in prayer. Buffy recognized the gown she wore – red velvet and black lace – but it was washed out in shades of bleak grey, like the rest of this world.

“What do you want? Why are you here?” Buffy demanded, keeping her distance. Spike stayed right at her side, his fangs bared in a warning snarl, his hackles stiff with displeasure.

“I’m still the mummy, matters not where our deadly boy dances. Your vow calls to me like bursts of fire in my blood. Do you remember your oath, little hobgoblin?”

Buffy’s brow furrowed, the night in the hotel after they’d rescued Dru from The Guardian of the Twilight’s rightful owner flashing fresh in her mind. “Of course I remember – I promised to keep Spike safe. He’s…” She was going to say ‘fine’, but that wasn’t true. She looked down at the big dog at her side and her throat tightened with guilt. She wasn’t keeping him safe. Wasn’t keeping her vow. The blood oath she’d given to Dru, the one Buffy had sworn on her own soul, was being broken.

Drusilla tilted her head, watching the blonde closely. “Our darling, deadly boy craves the bright candies he can’t catch and languishes beneath the moon, tethered by ghostly chains he can’t break.”

Still looking down, Buffy ran her hand along Spike’s big head and down into the thick mane around his neck. Tears welled in her eyes, knowing how weak he’d become, how he couldn’t jump or run or play, couldn’t shake vampires into bloody bits of confetti… couldn’t do anything that he loved to do. “Yeah,” she agreed, blinking back the heartache that was stinging her eyes.

The Slayer looked back up at Dru, hope blossoming in her chest. “Do you know what’s causing it? How do I fix it?”

“Jiggery-pokery cloaks the truth. What seems up is down, turvy is topsy, apples and pears, steps and stairs, sheep to wolves, foes to friends, masks must fall before the music ends.”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Could you be a little more cryptic? Spike might like that bullshit, but, in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s not here.” Buffy looked around, suddenly more alert, not sure what she wanted the answer to be as she asked, “He’s not here, is he?”

Drusilla smiled sweetly and began walking around, running her fingers through the flames that danced in the window of a gutted Citroën.

“Dru,” Buffy continued when she didn’t answer. “Is Spike alright? I got this p—” The Slayer stopped abruptly, not sure if Drusilla knew Spike was sending her postcards. “I got this _feeling_ that something might be wrong with him.”

“One good turn deserves another. Can turn effulgent hearts black, but it’s turned back to the light ‘fore the ride is over.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Buffy complained. “It was a simple question. Is Spike all right?”

“Only simple questions are stamped on bitty cards. Blue and gold about the edges, like my William's eyes. Answers on the back. One-two-three-four-five-six! Get a point if you match. Sweeties for the winner.”

Buffy furrowed her brow, thinking a moment, then sighed and rolled her eyes. The insane vampire was talking about the Trivial Pursuit cards Buffy had brought on the road trip. Could she get any less helpful right now? The answer, of course, was ‘yes’.

“Future’s all at sixes and sevens. Golden goblin’s world crumbles beneath the trials of the fleece wolf if the damsel lets our deadly boy tumble.”

“Dru,” Buffy groaned in frustration, stepping closer to her, Spike right at her side. “Can you just try to focus here? I understand the individual words, but you need to put them in an order that makes some kind of sense on this planet.”

Drusilla stopped walking and turned slowly to face Buffy. “Where do your galoshes plop?” she asked, waving a hand to encompass the destroyed city.

“I’ll have you know right now: I don’t wear _galoshes_. My boots are fashionable yet affordable… unless there’s a parental guilt-trip involved, then they’re fashionable and unaffordable.”

Dru arched an elegant brow at her.

Buffy sighed and surveyed her dreary surroundings again, then settled her gaze back on the vampire. “Paris.”

Dru shook her head, her steely eyes going wide as she prowled closer to the Slayer. “La Ville Lumière… Your oath breaks, so topples your soul… your light... broken, faded, drowned.”

Buffy furrowed her brow, looking around in dismay. “This is my _soul_? It’s all yucky. Why is it all yucky? And why is it French?”

Dru sighed. “Told ya, little goblin. Many paths. This is but one your galoshes may tread. All teeters in the balance. Actions, not words, guide your light.”

Buffy’s brain was beginning to hurt, but she forced herself to try and puzzle it out. _Actions not words – oath breaks, so topples your soul._ “I think I get it. I break my oath – don’t keep Spike safe – and my soul turns into yuckiness. As long as I keep my word – keep Spike safe – I’ll get a bright, shiny Paris?”

“La Ville Lumière,” Dru corrected.

“Which is ‘Paris’ in French, right?” Buffy scoffed. “That makes a strange kind of sense. It would break my world if something happened to Spike,” Buffy admitted, once again looking down at her faithful friend and running a hand over his big head. “Which is probably not something I want to get used to – making sense of anything you say,” she confessed, looking back at Dru.

Drusilla shrugged. “Might find lots of juicy tidbits hidden in the hedge if ya did.”

“Yeah, well, anything you think is a ‘juicy tidbit’ is probably not my idea of fun or yummy,” Buffy asserted, wrinkling her nose. She looked back down at her dog, her hand still petting him affectionately. “I won’t ever let you down,” she whispered to him. “You can always count on me.”

Spike leaned against her leg reassuringly, his tail wagging fast enough to fan some of the flames in the car at their back as she petted him.

Drusilla turned away from the pair, smiling deviously and murmuring too quietly for Buffy to hear, “Golden goblin plays the game, still doesn’t know the rules.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed again as she kept going over things in her mind, then her gaze hardened, turning apprehensive. She looked back up at the vampire and demanded, “If this is my soul, then how are _you_ here?”

Drusilla turned back to face the Slayer and lifted her right hand, showing Buffy her palm. Suddenly, a diagonal slash of bright red blood appeared on it – the only color in the whole world. The vampire closed the short distance between them and snatched Buffy’s hand, the stake suddenly gone from it. A matching line of ruby droplets bloomed on Buffy’s flesh. Before the Slayer could jerk her hand away, Dru clamped their wounds together, just as they’d done when Buffy had sworn her oath to protect Spike all those months ago.

Buffy gasped and staggered as visions of sparkling stars, gruesome deaths, dazzling fairies, ripped flesh, glittering rainbows, pooling blood, fluttering hummingbirds, and grisly carnage flashed in her mind in rapid succession. Familiar faces were interspersed within the spectacle blazing through Buffy’s mind – Angelus, Darla, Spike, the Master, and there were others she didn’t know, but somehow knew they were ‘family’ to Drusilla. Along with the pictures, which ricocheted from wondrously beautiful to gut-wrenchingly grotesque, came emotions. She was filled with everything from pure childlike glee to black, burning hatred, to icy terror, to aching desire, to sorrow and heartache so deep she couldn’t imagine how anyone could survive it. And then, atop it all, there was the pain. Beautiful, blissful, breathtaking, blood-curdling, barbed _agony_ filled the Slayer, flaring out from her belly like glass splinters in her veins, shredding and slashing, threatening to consume her.

“WHOOOF!” Spike objected, jumping up and bringing his paws down on their joined hands, separating the two women. The Slayer stumbled back against one of the rusty, crashed cars, trying to steady herself and catch her breath.

Spike followed her, worry clouding his soft brown eyes as he put himself between the skinny rabbit and his hooman.

“What… the… hell?” Buffy gasped, bent over at the waist, her left hand propped against the big dog for support. She turned her right hand over, the blood, the slash, the color, was gone.

Dru swayed gently in the street, her eyes closed, her expression serene, and a beatific smile gracing her features. She had her hands pressed over her heart and seemed to be floating just slightly off the fractured pavement. “Love blossoms like periwinkles… soft and pure,” she murmured dreamily.

“Drusilla! What the fuck?!” Buffy demanded, pushing herself off another old Citroën and stalking over to the exasperating woman.

Drusilla blinked her eyes open, their normal bright blue the color of London fog, still smiling placidly. “Sisters, we are, golden goblin – blood shared, bonded. Capricorn on the cusp of Aquarius. Two mummies for our deadly boy, day and night, stars and sun.”

“What are you talking about?!” the blonde demanded, even as realization dawned. “I never… that’s not…” she gasped. “I’m not okay with bonding! I’m the absolute opposite of okay! There is no okay in this! You never said anything about any bonding!” Buffy protested.

Dru’s smile grew devilishly satisfied. “Didn’t ask.”

Buffy gawped at her, then huffed out a frustrated breath and whirled away from the vampiress, her arms thrown out in exasperation. “If I _had_ asked, you would’ve said something about fucking goats eating shiny periwinkles in the age of Aquarius!” she protested, turning back to face the brunette, her hands planted on her hips.

Dru shrugged, still smiling like the cat that ate all the canaries and then had the finches for dessert. 

“Undo it!” the Slayer demanded, stalking back toward the vampire.

“Ties that bind life and death with ruby drops shan’t unravel ‘til blood turns to ash and we are no more.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Argh! Why did I know you were gonna say that? Well, not _that_ exactly, but... that! This is so not good.” Buffy sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before that particular bomb had dropped. Galoshes. Boots. Soul. Oh, right… apples and pears. “Do you know what’s happening to us? Who’s doing it? What have you seen?”

“Paths diverge; the pixies are all a twitter,” Dru purred mysteriously as she knelt down next to the dog. Spike growled warningly, but the vampire paid that no mind as she scratched his ears just the way he loved and he subsided, letting his eyes drift closed in pleasure.

“You’re ruining my dog,” Buffy objected with an impatient sigh.

The seer rubbed her cheek against the Guardian’s soft fur, her eyes falling closed to match the dog’s. She began running her hands along his flanks, enjoying the feel of his long hair slipping over her palms, petting him languidly.

“Dru, do you mind?” the Slayer huffed.

The brunette giggled, but didn’t stop petting Spike as she murmured, “Mummy’s sweet, deadly boys – princes both, lost and found, drawn to the sunbeams, eager moths, mixed and matched. The stars whisper … _psp, psp, psp_ … but they’re blinded by the glare. Prince shields the Queen of Cups, damsel claims the prince. Your shiny city will fall if the reaper’s scythe finds its mark.”

Buffy sighed impatiently. “Dru, can you just tell me one thing without the fucking word games? And get your grubby hands off Spike!”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit… turns the golden goblin green.” Dru smiled sweetly and stood up, facing the Slayer. Spike opened his eyes and nudged her hand, bumming more ear scratches, which the vampire absently obliged. “What does the little hobgoblin want to know?”

“Who’s doing this to us? Is it the Powers? Or is there someone I can hit to fix it?” Buffy asked, scowling at the demented woman and her ruined dog in equal measure.

“Think they’re gods, they do, but only chameleons hiding in the rafters. Come from another land; skitter about in plain sight like scorpions,” Dru revealed as she reached out and danced her long nails lightly over Buffy’s shoulders and down her arms. “Watch and scheme – hide behind faces of innocence – biding time, but not much longer now before they strike. New moon waxes into silver crescents.”

“I was hoping for a name or an address or something?” Buffy suggested, crossing her arms in annoyance, the stake back in her hand. “Maybe a mugshot? I’d settle for a police artist’s sketch…”

Drusilla shrugged, unrepentant, and twirled away from Buffy and Spike, dancing in time with the crying hearts on the bridge. “The pixies hover above your shoulder… your sunbeams teeter in the balance, shiny hobgoblin. Will you keep your vow? Or will the color fade from the world?” 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy tried to open her eyes, but they were glued closed by her crusted tears. She rubbed her lashes, finally clearing them, and blinked her eyes open. The morning sun shone through the comforter, creating a soft glow in her little cocoon. Next to her, Spike stirred, stretching his legs out with a satisfied moan.

Buffy was just as exhausted as when she’d finally gotten to sleep the night before, like she hadn’t slept at all. She felt like she was trapped in a waking nightmare – one of those that you can’t get out of, no matter how far or fast you run, and no matter who you ask for help, no one can or will help you. Of course, part of that nightmare was her calling Spike for help. Could she have made a worse decision if she’d tried?

She closed her eyes again and groaned, her stomach knotting with renewed anxiety and sickening in regret. She could only remember snippets of what she’d said, but even without all the words she knew how she’d felt, which was terrified. She also knew, without any shadow of a doubt, how her voice would’ve sounded to the Slayer of Slayers: like a victim. And, if she didn’t get her strength back before he showed up, that was exactly what she’d be – his third Slayer. His victim.

She’d be nothing more than another footnote in the Council’s archives, listed in the annals of history as William the Bloody’s third Slayer.

“No, not just in one book,” she rasped, her voice barely audible even to herself. “You’ll be in the records for sleeping with Angel and setting Angelus free, too. ‘Buffy, the Stupid Vampire Slayer’ is what they’ll call you. Stupid enough to let Angel trick you into doing what no other Slayer had – giving yourself to him. Stupid enough to trust not just one, but _two_ vampires. No wait, not ‘stupid’, what did Giles call you?” Buffy swallowed, tears welling in her eyes. “Reckless… disappointing.”

Buffy hugged Spike and buried her face in his thick, coppery mane as the tears flowed again. She was gonna die and that would be her legacy – Buffy the Reckless, Buffy the Disappointing. Buffy the horrible Slayer and even worse daughter. A cautionary tale for all future generations.

Spike whined and tried to turn over to face her, to comfort her, as her salty tears dampened his coat. Her heart aching, Buffy ran her hand up and down her friend’s side as Dru had done in the dream, scratching and ruffling his thick fur. _The dream._ She let herself get lost in it for a moment, seeing it again, thinking about Drusilla – the pious seer turned insane vampire.

Buffy had to believe there were real clues there buried under Drusilla’s ramblings. Clues that could save her life, save Spike’s life. Clues that could keep them alive, if she could just figure them out. Clues that could give her a chance to be more than that horrible, cautionary tale, more than reckless and disappointing. She could redeem herself. Make Giles proud of her… make him care about her again.

She had to try. She couldn’t just lay here and hide, no matter how much she might want to. Buffy was still the Slayer; she had to _fight_. She had to _do_ something. “Do something,” she admonished herself aloud. “ _Do_ _something_!”

Buffy took a deep breath to settle her nerves and disburse the shame that writhed in her belly. Sniffing and wiping her eyes, she tried to remember everything the vampire had said in the dream. Which was, of course, impossible. “Why can’t I get dream messages from Joe Friday… the facts and nothing but the facts?” she grumbled, her voice hoarse and rough as it passed through her swollen throat.

One thing she absolutely remembered was Dru saying they were bonded with their blood, and that made a frisson of dread and revulsion skitter down her spine. What did that exactly mean? She had no real idea; probably nothing good; probably something else for the _annals_. But she’d have to put that on the list of stuff to figure out later – if there was a later – because the other thing she remembered was that the chameleons were going to strike soon. Buffy needed to be ready. If she could find them, then she could figure out what they were doing to her and her dog. That would let her get back to full strength before her mortal enemy, and sometimes friend, came for her and took away all chance of redemption.

Okay. Plan. Buffy had a plan. Not much of a plan, but it was a start: _do something._

With a grunt of pain, she uncovered her head and turned over, looking for her journal to write down as much as she could of the dream, but the book wasn’t there. She sighed, remembering leaving it in the kitchen the previous day after the flower incident. The Slayer grimaced as she threw the covers back, her shoulder protesting the movement with a vengeance. The postcard with Spike’s phone number on it was buried in the tangle of sheet and comforter as she tossed it aside, unseen by the distraught girl.

Trying to keep her momentum going now that she’d started, Buffy swung her feet to the floor with another groan. Her body was stiff and sore. Bruises that should’ve healed by now remained colorful reminders of the vampire attack the previous night. _God, had that just been last night? It seemed so long ago._ She opened and closed her hands, wincing as her swollen knuckles refused to bend or straighten fully. She gingerly tested out her shoulder and thought it was a little better than it had been the previous night. Of course, moving it and falling on it were two very different tests.

Buffy took a deep breath and pushed up to her feet. With the bent posture and tremulous gait of a grandma – you know the one who’d gotten run over by a reindeer? – she made her way into the bathroom, where nothing got easier. In the span of two days, sitting down and standing back up had become Olympic events. In the mirror, she could see the deep purple outline of each of the vampire’s fingers where they’d wrapped around from back to front on her throat. She shuddered thinking of him, about his lewd, spine-chilling laugh. When she had her strength back, she was hunting him down and turning him into dust bunnies in the most painful way possible. And she had to believe she’d get her strength back, that she’d get another chance.

Buffy looked at her beaten face in the mirror, at her swollen, red eyes, at the abrasions and cuts, dried blood and smudges of dirt still staining her skin. She didn’t think she could possibly cry any more, but the tears stung her bloodshot eyes yet again. That wasn’t the face of a Slayer. It was the face of a victim… a damsel.

Buffy clenched her jaw – which sent knives stabbing down through her neck – and swallowed back those tears. “Fine, then,” she ground out. “Then I’ll be the badass-iest damsel in all of damsel-dom,” she declared with a firm nod of her head. Stars blazed across her vision with the movement and she grabbed hold of the counter to steady herself. “Right after I down a few hundred Ibuprofen and have a hot soak in Epsom salts,” she added with a sigh.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Mom!” Buffy croaked anxiously as she and Spike came into the kitchen a little while later.

Joyce jerked her head up off the book that she’d been using for a pillow, her eyes darting around, trying to remember where she was.

“Are you okay?” the girl demanded, shuffling to her mother as quickly as her stiff joints would allow.

Even moving slowly, Spike beat Buffy to the woman at the breakfast bar, who was rubbing her eyes tiredly. He began sniffing and nudging her worriedly, concern evident in his manner. Joyce dropped a hand to his head and petted him as she assured them both, “I’m fine… just must’ve partied too hard.”

“Partied? What?” Buffy asked in her rough voice, reaching for the open book.

Joyce intercepted her, pulling the girl into a tight hug. “How are you feeling?”

Buffy returned the embrace, letting the strong, caring arms of her mother suffuse her with a sense of comfort and serenity, if only for a few moments. “I’m okay, Mom… better,” she replied, pressing her face against the older woman’s neck. “Thank you for being there… for everything. You brought Spike up, didn’t you?”

Joyce squeezed her daughter harder, then released her, pulling back so she could look at her. “I thought he might be able to help with things that I couldn’t,” she admitted with a sad smile. 

Buffy blinked back dampness from her eyes and nodded. “Thank you,” she rasped again. “He did.”

Joyce pressed her fingers against Buffy’s forehead and cheeks. “No fever… you aren’t shivering like last night.”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m okay… well, at least not as un-okay as I was,” she assured her. Buffy cleared her throat, which felt like sandpaper chafing down her esophagus, and took a step back. “So… party?” she asked again, looking at the counter and the open books.

“Research party,” her mother explained, picking up a legal pad from the counter and showing it to Buffy. “I found a few things that could be doing this to Spike,” she explained.

Buffy took the pad from her and looked it over, her eyes growing wide. “These are all poisons… wolfsbane, horse-chestnut, hemlock, nightshade.”

“Yes,” her mother confirmed. “Apparently, over the centuries, vampires and werewolves have tried to poison the Guardians, to try and reduce their numbers or wipe them out. But, because of their supernatural constitutions, it usually resulted in little more than ‘ _lethargy’_ and ‘ _general malaise’_ ,” Joyce reported.

“Like Spike has…” Buffy muttered, looking down at the dog. “Someone’s… poisoning us?” she asked, her wide eyes meeting Joyce’s.

The older woman frowned, but shrugged and stood up, picking up her empty coffee cup, and headed for the sink. At the last moment, she detoured to let Spike out to do his business in the backyard first. “I don’t know – it’s the only thing I found in those books Mr. Giles had. That doesn’t mean that’s what it is. I thought I’d take Spike back to the vet, though, and have them test for some of those things specifically.”

Buffy nodded. Even if they found out _what_ it was, that didn’t tell them _who_ it was doing it. If she believed Dru – and she really didn’t have anything better to go on, which was just sad – it was someone hiding in plain sight. A chameleon. A shapeshifter maybe. Or something that could veil themselves with magic to seem friendly, but were really foes. She needed to get some idea of what she was up against. How many types of demons could do that? How did you kill them?

“That’s a good idea,” the girl agreed finally, setting Joyce’s pad down and reaching for her bookbag that was close by on the counter. “I have to make some notes… I had a… a dream that might have some clues. I don’t want to forget any of them, then I’m going back to Giles’ place for my own research party.”

“You aren’t going to break in, are you?” Joyce chastised, rinsing her mug out in the sink.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Giles was less than helpful yesterday,” she excused, a flush of shame heating her neck and face. _Reckless. Disappointing._

“I spoke with him last night and he promised to get everyone together for research. At least talk to him, okay? I think you’ll find him more, um, _receptive_ today.”

Buffy sighed, but nodded as she dug her pen out of the bag. Writing instrument in hand, she opened her journal, turning to the back, leaving room for more notes about Angel, whenever she got back to him. _‘Assuming he’s not the one behind all this, the wolf in a wool cloak,’_ her mind added. _‘In which case, it won’t matter because I’ll dust him… good and proper this time, as Spike would say.’_

“Okay,” the girl agreed reluctantly, not looking up, her voice cracking painfully. “I’ll talk to Giles first before I break into his apartment to read his books like a criminally-inclined geek.”

“Good girl,” Joyce teased. “I’ll make you some ginger tea with honey and lemon for your throat. Then get a quick shower and take Spike back to the doctor for those tests.”

“Is there caffeine in that? Cos I feel like I’m dangerously low in that particular nutrient.”

Joyce snorted. “I’ll make some fresh coffee, too.”

“I’m nominating you for the ‘Best Mom of the Century’ award,” Buffy swore as her eyes lit on the journal page that had the bleach-blond vampire’s phone number scribbled on it. Spike might understand more of what Dru had said… maybe he could interpret insano-vampire speak for her. She shuddered as the memory of calling him the previous night washed over her once more, turning her stomach and tightening her chest in a painful vise of fear. And she was seriously considering calling him _again_? And she thought Dru was the insano one?

Buffy looked up at her mom, who was heating up water for the tea while the coffee started brewing. “No one’s… called this morning… o-or last night, have they?”

Joyce turned around and looked at her daughter. “No. Why? Are you expecting a call?”

Buffy swallowed and looked back down at her journal, shaking her head. “No, not really… just curiousness.”

The Slayer refocused. Spike was in Brazil with Dru. It would take days, maybe even weeks, for him to get here to kill her. He might not even come. He might think she’d just lost her mind and not believe she was really a helpless Slayer just waiting for William the Bloody to make her his third notch. Maybe he’d even think it was a trap of some kind.

It was possible. It was also possible that she’d sprout wings and fly.

Priorities. She needed priorities. And the first one was figuring out who was doing this to her and her dog. Nothing in Dru’s little dream ramble was that specific. Calling Spike again wouldn’t help unravel it, she decided. Anyway, all she’d ever gotten was his voicemail, which was less than helpful since he’d never called back, even when she’d asked him to. Maybe he wasn’t listening to them. Maybe he’d lost the phone. Maybe he’d forgotten to pay the bill. Maybe cell phones didn’t work in Brazil.

_‘God, please let one of those be true!’_

Buffy flipped to a blank page near the back of the book. She had to wedge the pen between her swollen fingers to hold it, but finally got it secured. With stubborn Summers grit, she began to write down everything she remembered from the dream. As she worked, her mom set the mug of tea down for her and the Slayer stopped to take a grateful sip. The warm liquid was a balm to her ravaged throat, and she couldn’t help but hum her appreciation, her throat already feeling better.

“We’ll get this figured out, Buffy. The books say there was no lasting damage from the poisons… if that’s what this is.” Joyce’s stomach had been in knots all night. The morning light hadn’t lessened them any as she looked at her daughter’s beaten face, ravaged hands, and the handprint in purple around her neck. If someone had poisoned her girl… Well, they best hope Buffy got to them first, because Joyce was sure the death _she_ would mete out wouldn’t be half as benevolent as what Buffy would bestow.

Buffy nodded, meeting her mother’s determined eyes with her own. “Yes, we will,” she agreed.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link.](https://flic.kr/p/2kCRKRE)**

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**End notes:**

Bridge in Paris with the ‘Love Locks’: Pont des Arts <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pont_des_Arts>

Jiggery-pokery meaning: _noun_ INFORMAL • BRITISH • deceitful or dishonest behavior.

Okay, to be honest, I don't know why my muse picked Paris to represent Buffy's soul. I think because I loved the visual of all those landmarks that everyone knows being destroyed like that -- it made it easy to visualize. But Dru made it work with her insisting it wasn't actually 'Paris' but the 'City of Light', and we all know Buffy glows, right? That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In my far off vision for this series I see Spuffy strolling through Paris at night, holding hands, stealing kisses, across that bridge of love locks, putting one on there of their own. {{happy sigh ... one day}}

Will Dru’s confusing warning help Buffy at all? We’ll find out in the next chapter. Could you follow any of it? I hope at least some of it was clear. If you don’t remember the blood oath Buffy made with Dru, it was two stories ago: ‘Spike’s a Good Boi’, Chapter 16.

Thank you so much for reading!! We are going to be focusing more on Buffy and Sunnydale for a tiny bit longer, but hang in there, we will check on Spike in the next chapter. I know it feels like a lot of time is passing because of so many chapters, but really it hasn't been that long in 'real time'.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	6. Waxing into Croissants

****

* * *

**Chapter Notes:**

We get back to vampire-Spike finally in this chapter! Keep in mind that anywhere that is not Sunnydale at this point is vampire-Spike. Also, in case it's not clear, the time lines between vampire-Spike and Buffy are now in sync, so morning for Spike is the same morning for Buffy and they'll continue in sync from here on out.

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like frosted donuts with sprinkles for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying, but I promise to get caught up soon.

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

* * *

Chapter 6. Waxing into Croissants

* * *

**_Arizona._ **

Spike had spent longer in Hermosillo than he’d intended, but the pickings were so bloody easy, he couldn’t bring himself to go. It felt like walking away from the craps table when you were on a hot streak. The criminal element, mostly members of the Sonora Cartel, had become overconfident, only fearing rival cartels and the occasional federale. One lone, drunken tourist staggering about on the dark, deserted streets wasn’t a threat – or so they thought.

By morning, there were more than a few Sonoran drug traffickers questioning their life choices, a fair bit of cocaine washing into the sewers, and a lot less dosh in the cartel’s coffers. Sitting in the DeSoto, Spike shoved all the cash into his duffel bag, removing most of his clothes to get it to fit. Once that was done, he draped his duster over his head, and prepared to make the mad, mid-morning dash into the Nogales, Arizona motel room he’d rented for the day. It’d take another half a day or longer to be in Sunnydale, and after his active night, he decided a warm shower and a good day’s rest in a nice soft bed were in order before crashing the Slayer’s party.

He paused then, his eyes settling on the glovebox, his mind on the mobile phone that was tucked up in there. He hadn’t turned it on for hours; hadn’t dared. Thugs with guns didn’t scare him, but that phone, and what it might have to say, did. What if Buffy had called? What if she hadn’t? Both prospects were unreasonably gut-wrenching. If he just left it switched off, he’d never have to know. His mind and heart wrangled with the dilemma for several long moments. Maybe her voice was on that phone, honestly concerned about him. Maybe she would welcome him back to Sunnydale, despite his promise to stay away. But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d fallen back under Angel’s broody spell and forgotten her declaration that they were ‘friends’. He wasn’t sure he could bear losing someone else to the gormless tit. 

With everything set – room key in hand, bag on his shoulder, duster over his head – Spike gritted his teeth and reached for the door handle, determined to leave the phone where it was. At the last moment, and with a growl of frustration, he reached back and grabbed the mobile out of the glovebox. He shoved it roughly into his waistband before he flung the door open and jumped out, not giving himself time to change his mind about it. His skin began to smolder immediately under the bright southwest sun, and by the time he made it to the shelter of the covered walkway, smoke was billowing in his wake.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed, dropping his duster and stomping on a spot that had nearly caught on fire. “Need that big sodding umbrella o’ the Slayer’s… should’a stolen it instead of that Trivial Pursuit rubbish,” he grumbled as he opened the door and pushed inside. Deep down, he didn’t mean it, of course. The little cards with their questions and answers were still wrapped up in his bag, and he still looked at them whenever he was bored, chuckling each time as he recalled the little blonde’s indignation at his superiority at the game and her adorable… _annoying_ pout.

Spike dropped his bag on the floor then retrieved his duster from the walkway, put the ‘do not disturb’ placard on the door, and let it fall closed with a ‘click’ of the lock. It sounded just the same as the door in Puerto Vallarta. Just the same as the door that closed him away from Dru. It sounded like forever. And when you were a vampire, ‘forever’ could be an awfully long time.

He leaned his forehead against the door, pressing one palm to it, and closed his eyes, his heart aching for his dark princess. Tears threatened, but he swallowed them back. She’d never love him. Didn’t need him. Didn’t give two shits about him or his feelings. Didn’t listen to him when he tried to keep her safe – said he was soft.

“Soft my aching arsehole,” he snarled, his demon rising as he drew his fist back and punched the steel door, leaving a dent in the hard metal. Buffy had called to check on him – said she hoped he was all right. He couldn’t recall Dru ever asking if he was all right, always away with the fucking pixies, the center of her own fantasy world. “Away with fucking Angelus, more like,” he muttered, sniffing as his demon receded. 

Spike squared his shoulders and took a deep, cleansing breath. Well, she wasn’t the center of _his_ world anymore, that was for sure. Off the sodding map, she was. Could frolic there all she liked with her bloody fairies and dollies and rainbows. Wasn’t any of his concern.

“My sodding turn,” he said aloud. It had become his mantra the last day or so. He nodded to himself and began stripping out of his overshirt and then t-shirt, both of which reeked of burning vampire. He was also pretty sure even _he_ could get high on the cocaine residue that had permeated the fabric during his nighttime dances with the cartel’s peons. Spike tossed the shirts into a corner and had begun undoing his belt when he remembered the phone stuffed in the waistband of his jeans.

The vampire dug the charger out of his bag and plugged it into the wall, then into the little port on the mobile, leaving it sitting on the nightstand as he finished undressing and headed into the bathroom for that long-overdue shower.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy gave Spike a hug before she got out of the Cherokee in front of the high school. He seemed to be feeling a little better. He’d eaten some eggs for breakfast and managed to get himself into the SUV with only a little help from Joyce and Buffy. Feeling confident that the people at the V-E-T’s office could get him in and out of the Jeep, Joyce was dropping her daughter off at school to speak to Mr. Giles about access to research materials. She was then taking the dog for more tests to try and narrow down what might be causing his weakness and ‘general malaise’, as the books had put it.

“Do you want me to pick you up when we’re done?” Joyce asked as Buffy climbed out of the vehicle, the two books on Guardian dogs in hand.

“No, just call the library and let me know if they find anything. I’m not sure how long this’ll take or if Giles even called in the troops. If I’m not at the library, call Giles’ house, I might be there, since most of the books we have left are there,” Buffy replied closing the door and looking back in through the open window.

“I don’t want you walking home after dark,” Joyce warned.

“The idea doesn’t fill me with oodles of joy either,” Buffy agreed. “I’ll get a ride from someone – Giles or…” Buffy stopped, remembering that the other car-having people she was friends with, Cordy and Oz, were less friendly lately. “…or someone.”

“I’d feel better if you were home before dark,” Joyce continued.

Buffy nodded. “Noted. I’ll call if I’m gonna be late, and a big ‘no’ on the perambulation.”

“Be careful, honey,” the elder Summers remonstrated.

Buffy stiffened her back and saluted smartly, managing to keep the grimace of pain off her face from the sharp movement. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Joyce rolled her eyes and put the Jeep back in gear. “I’ll call you.”

“Talk to you later,” the Slayer agreed and turned to head up the empty walk and into the school. Classes had started hours ago, but she wasn’t going to class. She was going to the library to see if her Watcher had decided to help her or not.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

The bell rang and students poured out into the hallways between classes. Buffy waited in the alcove of a disused classroom doorway for Willow and Xander to come to their lockers, hoping to recruit them for the ‘convince Giles to take me seriously’ mission. Students passed, retrieved books, went on, the bell rang for the next class, but her friends never showed.

Buffy sighed as the last student dashed through the otherwise empty hallway, late for class. She’d just have to convince Giles herself, she decided, heading for the library. She had new clues – chameleon demons who thought they were gods from other dimensions that could hide in plain sight. True, those clues were from an insane vampire who also thought Buffy was a goblin, said that her soul was located in Paris, saw pixies, and talked in riddles. Buffy decided Giles didn’t need to know that part. Plus, if her mom got some news from the vet, then that might hold more hints, maybe even concrete evidence, as to what was being done to her and Spike.

Outside the double doors, Buffy took a deep breath and steeled her nerve. If Giles wouldn’t help her research, then he needed to hand over the keys to his apartment and give her access to all the books he had there. She knew he was working on replacing the main research library, that the Council was supposed to be sending more books, but until that happened, she needed whatever he had. This was not a flu. It was not something that would just ‘go away’. Something was after her in the most underhanded, diabolical way – making her and her dog weak and vulnerable so they could just come in and mow her down like dandelions on a golf course.

Well, that wasn’t happening. She may be weak. She may be hurt. She may be afraid. But she was still the Slayer, and she wasn’t going to let some cowardly lion kill her or her dog. So, Giles needed to get his ass on board with the mission or get out of her way. She had to get through this. She couldn’t end up as the most reckless, disappointing Slayer of all time.

With another firm nod of her head, which hurt less than it had earlier, she pushed the door to the library open and strode in. Four sets of curious eyes looked up at her. Buffy blinked in surprise. Her friends were here. Researching? Researching her problem or was there something else going on?

In the next moment exclamations of: “God, Buffy!” and, “Oh, dear Lord,” and one laconic, “Wow,” met her ears.

Xander and Willow jumped up from their seats at the research table and hurried toward her. Giles took a few halting steps in her direction from where he stood near his office. The last person in the room, one she hadn’t expected, Oz, stayed seated at the table, though his eyes met hers with a mix of concern and surprise.

“What happened?” Willow asked, reaching her first.

“Vampire,” Buffy replied simply.

“How many?”

Buffy sighed. “One.”

“One?” Willow squeaked. “Giles called a research party and said you weren’t, you know, your normal Slayer-y self, but… _one_ vampire did all that?” she asked, waving a shaky hand at Buffy’s face and neck, then down her body, ending with her ravaged knuckles.

Buffy bit her lip and fought hard to hold back the frustrated tears that misted her vision. A combination of shame and relief flooded through her – Giles was helping. Maybe he didn’t think she was worthless, after all. He believed her. He hadn’t tossed her away or given up on her completely. Not like her father. He still cared about her, was still on her side. She still had a chance to show him she could be better. “Yeah,” she rasped, blinking frantically.

“Oh, Buffy,” Willow sighed, holding her arms out and leaning in to hug her friend.

The Slayer held her hands up to stop her. “Raincheck on the hugs,” Buffy requested, taking a step back, which made that ache in her back twinge again. She was feeling a bit better after the Ibuprofen, the soak in Epsom salts, and the honey and ginger tea – which her mother had made a thermos of and sent with her. Her voice wasn’t quite as rough or as painful, her muscles and joints had loosened up, and the coffee was buzzing through her nerve endings, keeping her alert-ish. She knew she still looked like death that had been warmed over, re-frozen, and then run over by a Mack truck.

Buffy got her emotions under control, sniffing back the tears that wanted to fall, and focused on different developments that she’d apparently missed. She met Willow’s eyes, her brows going up in happy astonishment, and mouthed, _‘Oz?’_ to her friend.

A huge smile spread over Willow’s face. The witch’s eyes twinkled and shone with joy as she nodded eagerly. _‘Talk later,’_ she mouthed back.

“Buff! Are you alright?” Xander asked, interrupting their silent communication, his concerned brown eyes roaming over the blonde, taking in the bruises and abrasions and her stiff posture.

Buffy squeezed Willow’s arm lightly in silent congratulations, then began walking further into the room. “I’ll be better if we can figure out who’s doing this to me and Spike,” she announced, looking at Giles who was looking particularly ashen.

“Buffy, my dear…” he breathed, coming up to her. He reached a hand toward her as if to touch her swollen face, but stopped and dropped his arm when she flinched back. “Are you certain you should be out of bed?”

“I need to find out who’s doing this to me and Spike and make with the Slayage,” she asserted. “It’s not a flu. Something’s causing this. Mom thinks we might be getting poisoned. She read these books...” Buffy held up the Guardian books in demonstration, “...last night and found out that baddies have tried to poison them before, and the symptoms are the same!”

“Oh?” Giles squeaked, the last vestiges of color draining from his face.

“Yes! And I had a dream last night with some clues… maybe somewhere to start looking.”

“O-oh, y-yes? A-A Slayer dream?” the Watcher stuttered, removing his glasses and polishing them intently.

“Um, sort of,” Buffy hedged. “That’s not really important. The important thing is we need to be looking for shapeshifters, demons who can put on masks – wolves in sheep’s clothing – or maybe demons that can veil themselves completely.”

Giles began choking violently, his face turning the color of bruised plums.

“Giles!” Willow cried, pounding him on the back. “Are you okay? Do you need some water?”

The man nodded, still coughing, and the redhead hurried to the table and got a bottle of water for him. The Watcher took it gratefully and sipped between gasps, finally calming. He cleared his throat a few times and finally slid his glasses back onto his nose. “Shapeshifters, you say?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Buffy agreed as they all made their way to the research table. “Are there demons who can blend in like that? Chameleon demons? Who look like cute little sheep, but are, you know, underhanded, murdering bastards underneath?”

Giles began to cough again and took another drink of water. “W-well, yes… certainly,” the Watcher confirmed after a moment. “Quite a lot of them, I would imagine. And you received this bit of information in a dream?”

Buffy nodded, pulling her journal out of the bookbag. “I wrote down as much as I could remember,” she told them, turning to the appropriate page. She found the relevant lines and began to read, “’Pigs in a poke cloak the truth. Up is down, topsy turvy, apples and pears, steps and stairs, sheep to wolves, foes to friends, masks must fall before the music ends.’”

Giles’ brows furrowed. “Pigs in a poke? Apples and pears? Who delivered that passage, Dr. Seuss?”

Buffy just shrugged. “I think that’s what she said. Hang on, there’s more,” she revealed, her eyes wandering down the page. “Here. ‘Think they’re gods, but only chameleons hiding in the rafters. Come from another land; scuttle around in plain sight like scorpions. Watch and scheme hiding behind innocent faces. Not much longer before they strike. New moon waxes into croissants.’”

Giles downed another long swallow of the water and turned away, ostensibly looking at a book on the bookcase behind him.

“Croissants?” Xander asked. “Why not donuts? Or crullers? Eclairs?”

“I believe it’s meant to be ‘crescent,’” Giles pointed out, finally turning back around. “The new moon would wax into a crescent.”

“Oh, right,” Buffy muttered, digging out a pen to fix it. Her fingers were a bit less swollen, allowing her to actually grip it properly as she set the journal down and made the correction.

“And just who was it that came to you in your dream with this information?” Giles wondered, appearing both curious, perplexed, and more than a little flustered.

“Oh, you know… umm… a woman… said we were bonded… sisters,” Buffy hedged, not lying.

“A past Slayer? Fascinating…” he muttered, his brows drawn together in thought.

“So,” Buffy continued, neither refuting nor confirming his assumption. “I was thinking, if they’re coming soon, the more I know about how to kill stuff like this, the better. Maybe there’s some way that doesn’t actually require Slayer strength. Like last year with the rocket launcher? What do you think, Giles?”

The Watcher started, dragged from his thoughts. “What? O-oh, yes, yes, of course. I believe I have some books here that may be of some help,” he agreed, rummaging through a box that was on the floor nearby. “I brought all I had from home and the Council has delivered more,” he explained, pulling out some thick, old tomes from a shipping crate and handing them to Willow and Xander.

“Buffy, while they begin, perhaps you could tell me more about this dream,” Giles suggested, leading Buffy toward the counter as the two Scoobies took the books and sat back down at the table.

“I know you think I’m crazy, that I’m faking or…” she said, bringing her journal and following him.

“I assure you that I do not think any such thing,” Giles interrupted her, turning back around.

“So, you believe me… that something’s doing this to me and Spike?” Buffy asked, hope unfurling in her chest like a fragrant rose.

Giles gave her a timorous smile. “I do believe you, yes. Your mother made it quite clear to me that it wasn’t simply a virus when she visited last evening. S-So, what else was in your dream?”

Buffy looked back down at her journal, considering, unsure what more to reveal to him. She felt guilty for, once again, keeping secrets from him, but he’d just gotten back on the Buffy-train. She didn’t want to derail it again by telling about the blood oath and apparent connection she now had with a psychotic vampire.

“It was all kinda cryptic, but, if I interpreted it right, if I survive this but don’t save Spike… things will get pretty bleak,” the Slayer revealed. Tears once again stung her eyes as she looked up at Giles. Spike’s goofy face, tongue lolling to one side, his mouth hanging open in a pleased doggie-grin filled her thoughts. She was certain that Dru was right, if she let anything happen to him, her soul would be a burned-out shell, a study in dreary greys. “Please help me. I can’t let anything happen to him,” she begged, her voice cracking with emotion.

Giles turned away abruptly, hiding the guilt and shame that washed over his expression and the tears that shimmered in his own eyes. “Yes, yes, of course, my dear,” he assured her, bending down behind the counter to retrieve another book. “We’ll all do whatever we can to make sure nothing happens to either of you.”

“Thank you,” Buffy croaked, edging around the counter and wrapping her arms around his waist when he stood back up. She buried her battered face against his stiff tweed, tears of gratitude and relief trickling from her bloodshot eyes. “Thank you for helping me.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Arizona._ **

After soaking under the hot spray of the shower for a good long time, Spike sauntered back into the bedroom, still running a towel over his dripping hair. His stomach and chest were nearly healed from the holy water dunking, but his nose was still tender, and he was pretty sure he still had the dark remnants of two black eyes.

He dropped the towel on the floor and flopped down on the bed with a sleepy yawn. Without looking, he reached for the remote for the telly on the nightstand, but his fingers closed over the charging phone instead. He scowled at it as his traitorous hand brought the mobile into view, the little lightning bolt flashing on the otherwise blank screen as the battery charged up.

“Sod that,” he muttered, setting it down on the bed and reaching again for the remote. He clicked the TV on and began surfing through the channels, looking for something to fall asleep to. Late-morning talk shows abounded, which he skipped. He also passed by reruns of ‘Gunsmoke’, ‘Lost in Space’, and ‘I Dream of Jeanie’, wondering what time ‘Passions’ would be on. He hadn’t seen it in an age… not since he and Joyce had watched all the episodes she’d recorded. He wondered idly how many she might have on her VCR, hoped she’d saved them so he could…

“Don’t even know if she’ll even let ya in the bloody house,” he growled to himself, still flipping the channels. The thought that Angel might have convinced Buffy to do a disinvite spell on him flashed in his mind and made his stomach churn. Sodding Angel. Can’t stand for Spike to have anything, the wanker.

He eyed the phone, black and sinister-looking on the white sheet next to him, then looked back at the TV, still scrolling idly through all the available channels. He stopped to watch a bit of ‘I Love Lucy’ as Ricky asked his wife, “Lucy, you remember that old saying, 'birds of a feather smell the same'?”

“You mean 'a rose by any other name flocks together'?” she wondered.

Spike chuckled, thinking of Buffy and her cute… _bloody annoying_ mixed metaphors, as Ricky considered a moment and then agreed with the redhead.

The vampire’s eyes wandered back to the phone, his chest constricting with hopeful dread. “ _Argh_!” he growled at himself. “Just turn the sodding thing on, you blighter!” he chastised himself, dropping the remote and reaching for the mobile.

Before he could change his mind, he pressed the power button, holding his breath through its too-familiar startup routine. The little jingle finished. An hour passed without Spike taking a breath – or perhaps it was a second – before the voicemail notification buzzed.

Spike’s insides were a three-ring circus of fear, hope, and anxiety. His emotions bounced around on trampolines, swung wildly on trapezes, and rode prancing elephants, whose heavy feet rumbled painfully inside his normally-still chest.

Someone had called. It had to be Buffy – she was the only one he knew who had the number.

He held the phone, staring at it for a few tremulous moments before finally drawing in a breath. He decided the air didn’t have enough nicotine in it and grabbed his cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand, lighting one with a calming sigh.

She’d called. All he had to do was punch in his code and he could hear what she said. Another inhalation of thick smoke. A steeling of his nerve. He opened the phone and pressed the key to dial into the messages. Another long draw from the fag, the end burning brightly in the corner of his eye as he entered his PIN.

“You have two new messages. Message one:” the listless voice announced. Spike swallowed, staring at the phone, waiting for acceptance or rejection, to be declared a friend or a foe, to be welcomed or dismissed. What he heard, however, was none of the above.

“…to know… I can’t… it’s not fair!” Buffy’s rough voice came from the small speaker, sounding crazed and panicked. Syllables and often whole words where unintelligible, little more than a squeak or a rasp. “I did… I was supposed to! …good Slayer! I tried... good daughter! I swear I did! Why…? …bad person? …of Angel? …shouldn’t have …set …free. Is that why? I gave him…”

Spike was staring at the phone, nearly crushing it in his hands, trying to make it tell him what was going on, what had the Slayer so overwrought. Had something happened to Joyce? To Cujo? To one of her mates?

_‘To Angel?’_ he added reluctantly, though he thought he’d know through the bloodline if something truly dire had happened to the old geezer.

A soul-deep sob filled the room, making Spike’s stomach clench painfully. A burning need to be there with the Slayer swept through him. His arms ached to wrap around her, to not let anything hurt her ever again, though he didn’t examine that instinct too closely, his mind occupied with trying to make out what she was saying.

“Please tell me…tell me why? …all gone – I can’t …my strength …everything, gone! Not …Slayer anymore. …scared! …thought …it’d be you …but they’re …coming.”

Another heartbreaking sob shuddered from the phone, making his hand tremble beneath the weight of it.

“…fight, can’t …they’ll kill me! Spike …help …hear me! Oh, God! They’ll kill… too!”

The next wail of raw agony from the Slayer made Spike’s heart lodge in his throat and all the elephants in his circus of emotions trumpet their own thunderous howl of pain along with hers.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Spike… noooooooooo!!! God! Help us! Please! …can’t stop them …outside and… God, Spike! What…?”

The silence that followed was deafening, an oppressive weight pressing down on him. He stared at the phone in a state of confused terror. Was the Slayer dead? Had he just heard her last words? Had she called him for help and his stubborn pride had gotten her killed? If he’d only left the sodding phone on! If only he’d headed for Sunnydale when he’d first walked out on Dru instead of wasting time driving in sodding circles! He could’ve been there. Could’ve saved her. What the fuck was wrong with him?

His head shook back and forth of its own accord, shock settling over him, his blue eyes misting with dread. She couldn’t be dead. “No, no, no, no…” he babbled. It couldn’t be – not Buffy! He couldn’t be too late.

But of course he could. Monsters like him were never meant to touch the sunshine. Hadn’t Dru said as much? Belonged in the dark, with her. Always in the dark. Wasn’t fit for someone like Buffy… too good, she was. Too much light for a monster like him to dare touch.

“Message two:” the dispassionate voice announced, jerking Spike back from the death spiral his mind had begun swirling down.

“Spike? Hi, um… I’m not sure if I should be calling you, but I can’t think of anyone else to ask. It’s Buffy… and Spike – you know, our Spike, the dog? Oh, sorry – this is Joyce… Joyce Summers, from Sunnydale? You remember, right?”

A choked half-sob, half-laugh burst from his clogged throat, his eyes closing, bracing himself, afraid he’d likely never laugh again after this.

“It’s Buffy,” she repeated, and Spike grit his teeth nearly to the point of cracking them as he waited for what he knew was coming. Her daughter was dead. The Slayer – his friend – was dead. Gone from the world. Her light forever snuffed. Whoever killed the Slayer – _his_ _sodding friend_ – he’d hunt them down and rip them into little bits of blood-soaked agony, one fucking scream at a time.

“She’s… something happened. Both Buffy and Spike – not you, the dog – have lost their strength. She’s… she’s afraid she’s not the Slayer anymore, but I don’t believe it. Something’s going on and… well, I thought… I mean, I know you’ve… ummm… _known_ other Slayers and I thought maybe you might know of something that could cause this.”

Spike blinked. His thoughts reeling, stunned. The cigarette he’d been holding burned down and charred his fingers. He looked at it blankly, the pain not registering. Blinked again. Flicked it onto the tile floor. He forced his mind to focus, to hear the words, to understand. “She’s not dead?” he asked the message, confused. “Tell me the Slayer’s not fucking dead!” he demanded then, shaking the phone as if he could force the answer from it.

“So, if you could call me back. Buffy doesn’t know I called you. I’m not sure… well, you know how she can be. But if you have any ideas, please call me back… soon. Thanks, Spike. … … I hope you’re doing okay. The last card we got was… well, we both hope you’re okay.”

“To play these messages again, press 4. To save these messages in your archives, press 7. To hang up, press pound. For more options…” the phone prompted.

“The Slayer’s not dead!” Spike exclaimed, jumping up from the bed as he saved the messages. He was a blur of motion gathering up his belongings, shoving it all back in his bag, pulling on his clothes, stuffing his feet back into his boots. “Not dead… not dead…” he repeated like a chant. “Not too late. Bloody hell! Don’t let me be too late!”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

“Buffy, it’s Mom,” Joyce said when her daughter picked up the phone in the school library later that afternoon. She was calling from the vet’s office, the assistant there being kind enough to let her use the phone.

“Mom! What did you find out?” the girl asked anxiously.

“The vet tested for poisons and found high levels of alkaloids in Spike’s blood. She said she didn’t test for it before because it’s not affecting his kidney or liver function, like she’d expect. But… he’s definitely been poisoned. She’s not sure with what yet, but…”

“God… it’s true,” Buffy rasped, closing her eyes and shaking her head. It was so… so mundane, so banal, so Shakespearean, so 18th century! Poison! Someone was actually poisoning her dog, and her, she had to assume.

“She gave him an IV to try and flush his system and a couple of other injections to counteract it. They need to keep him a while to finish the IV. Buffy, we need to get you to the hospital,” Joyce declared urgently. “I’m coming to pick you up right now.”

Buffy looked up at the clock. One o’clock. “I’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Arizona._ **

“Pick up, pick up… for fuck’s sake, pick up,” Spike muttered as the phone rang for the fourth time. Before the fifth, someone picked up.

“Hi!”

“Buff—” he began, but was cut off by the answering machine continuing its greeting, “You’ve reached the Summers’ residence…”

“Bloody hell,” he swore, his entire body quivering with adrenaline which had no ready outlet – nothing to hit, nothing to chase, nothing to break or bludgeon, nothing to _do_ but drive.

“We’re not available right now,” Buffy’s cheery voice continued. “Please leave a message after the beep and we’ll get back as soon as we can.”

_Beeep!_

“Joyce! Buffy! You lot at home? Shouldn’t ya be at home, for fuc—” Spike stopped and cleared his throat, trying to get his frantic emotions and colorful language under control. “Mean… thought you’d be home, with the Slayer feeling poorly and all.”

He lowered the phone from his mouth, his attention pulled away by the slow-moving traffic ahead of him. “Get outta the fucking way, bloody morons!” he screamed at the other cars as he merged onto the freeway, his left hand on the wheel, holding it in a death grip, the phone still in his right. “Where in the bloody fuck did you learn to drive? Sodding Florida!?”

Once he was clear, he brought the phone back up to his ear. “On the way. Be there ‘fore sundown, I’d reckon… if these buggers will get the fuck outta my way,” he added pointedly, directing the last at the other cars. “Just stay in the bloody house behind a threshold, yeah? Don’t do anything daft like get yourself killed ‘fore I get there. Do ya hear me, Slayer!? Bloody hell – where are you? Should be home! Not traipsing about like a Happy Meal outta the box,” he chastised.

He paused again in his message to swerve around another car, darting from one lane to the next and back again at breakneck speed. He always won the battle even if there wasn’t technically enough room for him by the simple expedient of being the one with the bigger, heavier, and more dented car.

Spike finally brought the phone back up to his ear. “I’ll be there soon. Bloody hell, Slayer – called dibs, didn’t I? That sodding dog of yours needs to keep his promise! Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed ‘fore I get there and muck everything up,” he admonished.

Spike flipped the phone closed and tossed it down on the seat next to him as his eyes blurred with emotion. “Just… just be okay. Please just be okay,” he pled to the empty car as he gripped the wheel with both hands and pressed his foot to the floor. He couldn’t be too late. He just couldn’t!

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**_Sunnydale._ **

“So, what’s wrong with Spike isn’t the same as what’s wrong with you?” Willow asked much later after Buffy’s return from the hospital. They were alone in the girls’ room taking a break from the researching.

“No, the doctors couldn’t find any poisons like that in my system. Couldn’t find anything really out of the ordinary at all,” Buffy confirmed, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Which is probably a clue,” Willow pointed out. “With the Slayer-ness… your blood probably shouldn’t be ordinary, right?”

Buffy shrugged, then winced as the pain in her shoulder flared to brilliant life. Rubbing at the burning joint, she answered, “I guess. I don’t know. But it looks like the only way we’re gonna figure out what’s wrong, is to find out who’s doing it and beat it out of them… very painfully.”

“We found lots of possibilities,” Willow offered brightly.

“Maybe too many,” Buffy complained with a heavy sigh, dropping her hand as the pain subsided back to merely agonizing.

All of Giles’ books contained way too many types of shapeshift-y demons that might be their bad guys; much more than Buffy had hoped. Nothing was ever simple. After Buffy had gotten back from the hospital and filled everyone in on the results, Giles had gone out saying he had some ‘quite urgent’ errands to run. He was supposed to pick up pizzas on the way back despite Xander’s assertion that _he_ was nourishment procurement officer, not Giles. School had been out for a while and everyone was starting to get hungry as dusk settled heavily on the town.

Even with everyone helping, the chances of them finding a real solution to this was looking kinda like Twiggy’s anorexic sister. In other words, incredibly slim. After starting off with what she thought would be game-changing clues, Buffy’s trepidation had been growing all day, her hopes waning. She was starting to feel as bleak and leaden as her dream-soul had been. Not to mention the caffeine was wearing off and her energy was starting to flag. She gritted her teeth metaphorically (because actually doing it hurt) and changed the subject. She needed something to focus on besides impending doom.

“Enough about me and dreariness. I want to hear some juicy, scandalous details, so, spill!” the Slayer demanded, forcing a smile to her lips and eyeing her friend cheekily. “What’s up with you and Oz?”

Willow giggled and turned to face the blonde, looking like the old, happy redhead Buffy knew and loved. It made a genuine smile grace curve Buffy’s bruised and swollen face to see her best friend looking so cheerful.

“He told me he missed me, like, every second!” Willow gushed as they leaned against the counter which held two sinks beneath a wall of mirrors. “Which is exactly how I felt! He said it felt like he’d lost an arm… o-or worse, a torso!” she continued animatedly.

“Awww, that’s so sweet,” Buffy agreed, smiling in spite of everything that was happening to her, happy for her friend. “Also, kinda gory if taken literally,” she joked with a small laugh.

“Right? Sweet and gory! It’s, like, exactly perfect for the Hellmouth, dontcha think? Then he said he was willing to give it a shot – give _us_ another shot – and I was, of course, all over the shooting! And we hugged, and it felt so good. Like… like all the knives that had been twisting in my chest just suddenly turned to rose petals. Oh, God, Buffy… I love him… I really… I think I love him. I’m not gonna screw this up… I never knew anything could hurt so much as when he hated me,” Willow admitted.

“Oh, Wills. I’m so happy for you guys,” Buffy sighed, opening her arms for that raincheck. The two girls fell into a supportive embrace, friends for life.

Buffy was happy for Willow and Oz, and maybe a little envious. This was how things should be in relationships. If you love someone, even if you mess up, you work it out, there are second chances. Buffy never seemed to get that luxury. A mistake with Angel, one ‘reckless’ decision, got people killed. Hell, just trusting her old flame, Ford, had nearly cost those stupid kids in the ‘Sunset Club’ their lives. For the Slayer, there was no going back, no making up, no innocent blunders, no second chances. Even just crushing on the wrong guy – Spike, for example – would likely get people killed – starting with her. It wasn’t fair. Nothing seemed to be fair anymore.

Buffy swallowed, pushing back her morose musings and refocusing, shaking off her pity-party. She was supposed to be basking in her friend’s happiness, escaping the misery for a few minutes, not digging herself in deeper. If she couldn’t be happy – either in love, or in life – then above all else, she wanted the people she cared about most to have all that she couldn’t. That was what being a Slayer was supposed to be about, right? Making sure everyone lived happily ever after in some shape or form? She could live vicariously through Willow, share in her excitement and joy, even if the occasional pang of jealousy in her heart temporarily caught her off guard.

“Look at me with all the gushing and not even asking how you’re holding up,” Willow said, when they both pulled away. “How are you holding up?” she asked earnestly, her expression concerned.

Buffy smiled wanly, turning away from her friend to look in the mirror. Still bruised and battered, still scraped up and beaten down. “Scared,” she admitted. “Really scared.”

“Well, I know it seems like there are a lot of these shapeshifter demons, but…”

“Not just that,” Buffy interrupted her. “I… I called Spike last night.”

“Spike?”

“Vampire Spike… I… I was freaking out and… it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Buffy admitted, turning to look at Willow again. “But now – I’m not so sure. What if… what if the Slayer of Slayers shows up and I’m like this?” she asked, spreading her arms out to indicate her less than strong, healthy self.

“How… Spike has a phone?” Willow stuttered in confusion, unable to jump past the idea of a vampire with a phone. “Angel doesn’t have a phone, does he?”

“Angel? No. Not that I know of, anyway. Of course, I don’t seem to know much of anything about Angel,” Buffy complained bitterly. “Off topic.” She shook her head and waved a hand, dismissing that line of thought. “But, yeah, Spike does. He… I… um. Don’t tell Giles, okay? But Spike’s been sending me postcards from the road and… well, he sent me his phone number on one of them.”

“Postcards? How many? What do they say?” Willow wondered, her mind skipping and jumping around from one revelation to the next, trying to process these surprising admissions.

Buffy couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s innocent enthusiasm – completely missing the part about the Slayer of Slayers coming to town to kill the weakened Slayer. “A few. Different stuff… mostly he’s being a smartass, making jokes, or being piggy… but some were sweet.”

“You’ve been keeping secrets, missy!” Willow accused, trying to be stern, even as a smile broke through.

“Sorry… I just… wasn’t sure how anyone would feel about it and…”

“I thought we agreed – non-judge-y friends forever,” the other girl reminded Buffy, resolve-face coming to the fore.

Buffy nodded. “I’m sorry… I’ll show them to you next time you’re at the house. But don’t tell Giles or Xander… no goodness could _ever_ come from that.”

“Deal,” Willow agreed. “So, why did you call him?” she asked, getting back closer to the point.

Buffy sighed, shaking her head, and dropped her gaze to her swollen hands, which were clasped in front of her. “I don’t know… I… he…” She looked back up and met her friend’s eyes. “Everyone was with the mollifying, telling me it would be okay. But it _wasn’t_ okay. I knew he, Spike, wouldn’t do that. He’d tell me the truth, even if it was harsh.” Tears began to leak from the Slayer’s eyes, her voice growing thicker, hoarser with each admission. “He’d… I thought he’d understand, maybe even know why this was happening… he’d tell me if I was a bad person. If I was a bad Slayer. Spike… he never lied to me or… or acted like I… like I couldn’t handle reality. He never treated me like I was a six-year-old who needed a sitter and a lollipop.”

“Oh, Buffy,” Willow sighed, her heart aching for her friend. She pulled the blonde back into another hug. “Sometimes all people can say is that it’ll be all right because they just don’t know what else to say.”

“I know,” Buffy admitted, her face buried against her friend’s shoulder. “But I needed the truth. I thought… I thought I was gonna die right then, and I just needed someone to tell me the truth before…”

“Oh, God, you must’ve been so scared. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there…”

Buffy sniffed and shook her head against Willow’s soft sweater. “Not your fault. But now, what do I do if he shows up to kill me? I don’t want to die… I… I want to vote and… and enter into unwise legal contracts and… and take out loans and struggle to pay them back.” _‘And not die as a reckless disappointment,’_ she added silently, her tears coming harder.

Willow snorted against Buffy’s shoulder and pulled back to look into her friend’s eyes. She reached out and gently wiped the tears from the Slayer’s cheeks. “You’ll get to do all that,” the witch assured her. “Spike owes you for helping to save Dru, remember?”

“No, I think that made us even… cos he helped me with Angelus and saved Giles,” Buffy reminded her.

“Yeah, but, you let him and Dru go for that. I think you’re still one up on the favor meter with him. If he shows up and you’re still un-Slayer-y, just call that in,” Willow suggested. “Do the whole truce thing… like he always does when he’s losing.”

Buffy chuckled through her tears and turned to one of the sinks to splash some cool water on her tear-streaked face. Willow handed her some paper towels and Buffy took them. “Can I tell you something else?” the blonde asked her friend as she patted her face gingerly to dry it.

“Anything.”

“I think… I think another reason I called him was… I just… I wanted to hear his voice once more before I… I died.” Buffy turned to look at Willow then, her eyes imploring. “Is that really stupid? Does that make me a bad person? …A bad Slayer?”

Tears welled in Willow’s eyes and Buffy was back in a tight hug the next moment. “No. You could never be a bad person, Buffy. And you’re the best Slayer I’ve ever known,” she swore, as if she’d known a hundred rather than three. “You save the world… a lot!”

“But, it’s _Spike_. When I was most afraid, when I thought I was gonna die, I called _Spike_.”

“I thought we already went over this,” Willow admonished, pushing Buffy back to arm’s length to look into her eyes. “Spike with the world-save-age, and puppy-bestowing, and Xander bitch-slapping – which at the time I was against, but he totally deserved it in retrospect. And, okay, the mass-murderer part isn’t ideal, but he went on the wagon on your road trip, maybe he could, you know, make it permanent. Plus, your mom actually likes him. My mom didn’t even know I was dating anyone, or that we broke up, or that we’re back together.”

“Not dating Spike,” Buffy declared. “I just…” she sighed.

“Like him… in more than a ‘friends’ sense,” Willow filled in.

“Which I can’t… for so many reasons, _I can’t,”_ Buffy groaned, shaking her head, tears welling in her eyes all over again. She thought of her mistakes with Angel. She thought of Jenny Calendar and Kendra. She couldn’t make the same mistakes again… the same reckless, disappointing mistakes.

Willow frowned, but didn’t have any good answer for her friend. “I’m sorry, Buffy.”

“Me too,” Buffy admitted, wiping her eyes and shaking her head despondently. “Do you think it gets better… you know, with the adulthood thing?” Buffy wondered with a weary sigh.

“It could hardly be any worse,” Willow pointed out her as they both started for the door.

Buffy snorted as pulled the heavy door open with a grunt of effort. “That’s a jinx if I ever heard one.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kDpDVm).**

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**End notes:**

Thank you so much for reading!! Spike is on the way for real now!! Let’s hope he doesn’t crash or anything in his haste.


	7. Face the Piper

**Chapter Notes:**

Plotty things start moving faster in this chapter and will keep up a good pace for a while, so buckle up.

Some dialogue borrowed from ‘Helpless’, Written by David Fury

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Kit-Kat bars for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying to your comments, but I promise to get caught up soon.

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

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**Chapter 7: Face the Piper**

* * *

**_Sunnydale._ **

Buffy and Willow were still talking amiably as they made their way back from the restroom to the library to resume their research. As the girls got closer to the library doors, they heard raised voices coming from inside, then there was a terrible screeching and tearing of metal. They shared a brief, startled look and both took off running the last few yards to the doors. To Buffy’s chagrin, she lagged behind the witch, each jarring step sending daggers shooting into her lower back and out from her injured shoulder, making her gasp and her steps falter.

“OZ!” the Slayer heard Willow shriek as she limped the last few feet and pushed in behind the redhead.

Buffy took in the scene before her with growing dread. The metal they’d heard being twisted was the door to the book cage, which had been ripped from its hinges and tossed to the side like it was made of papier-mâché. Oz and Xander, it seemed, had taken refuge in there, but had been dragged out by a thick-shouldered vampire who held one boy in each hand. The two boys both dangled by their necks, their feet off the ground. Despite their efforts to fight the vamp, each kicking and clawing at him frantically, the demon seemed to hold them effortlessly, barely even noticing their struggles.

“Shall I start with steak or lobster?” the vampire mused calmly, looking from Xander to Oz as he turned his whole body toward Willow, his attention drawn by her cry.

The vamp wasn’t one Buffy had ever seen before, but judging by how easily he held her friends, he was strong. That meant old. And though he wasn’t the ugliest vampire she’d ever seen – the Master continued to hold that prestigious crown – there was something very disturbing about him. Something in the calm, creepy way he spoke, which was such a stark counterpoint to the wild look in his eyes, sent a blaze of revulsion through the Slayer.

“Let them go!” the witch demanded, her eyes searching for a weapon. She faltered when she realized all their weapons were in the cage, behind the vampire.

“Oooo, strawberries and champagne for dessert,” the vampire continued, grinning, his long fangs glinting dangerously as he looked from Willow to Buffy. “This will be quite the celebration, won’t it, Blair?”

“Looks that way, Kralik… certainly seems quite the feast,” the vampire named Blair replied in a British accent.

Buffy’s wide eyes were drawn to movement from behind the captor of her friends to the other, smaller vampire who she hadn’t seen at first. Icy terror skittered down her spine. She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her heart skipped and skittered in her chest as adrenaline flooded her system. She’d been defeated by one vampire just last night. How could she take on two? How could she save her friends? She was sure Jonathan and his airhorn wouldn’t be waltzing in to save the day this time.

The Slayer found herself frozen, as she’d been in her bed the night before. Weak. Helpless. The epitome of the damsel in distress.

“I think I’ll start with… lobster,” the grinning demon, Kralik, decided. “You can start with steak,” he allowed, shoving Xander at Blair.

“Buffy! Do something!” Willow shrieked as the helpless boys’ necks were bared and fangs descended toward their jugulars.

Buffy’s trembling fingers reached instinctively for the stake in her waistband. She felt like the world around her was moving in slow-motion, but she was in stop-motion, just that much slower than everything else. All that panic from the previous night, which she thought she’d gotten past, crashed back down on her. Buffy’s throat closed up, her lungs ached for oxygen, and her heart pounded painfully against her breastbone. The monsters were not just coming, they were here! There was nowhere to hide, no blanket to cower beneath, no one to call, no time for redemption.

_Reckless. Disappointing._

“Buffy!” Willow shrieked again as Oz writhed, kicking and hitting at his captor, desperate to get free as death reached for him.

The stake fell from Buffy’s shaky fingers, clattering to the floor, sounding like a death knell in her ears. She couldn’t get her body to move like it should. Couldn’t get it to react, could barely breathe. The Slayer felt like she was moving through syrup – drowning in it, really. Her limbs were weighted down – each movement heavy and laborious – as she bent to try and retrieve the weapon. She gasped and nearly crumpled when her back protested the movement with a vengeance, shooting fiery daggers down her leg.

With a force of pure willpower, fighting through the pain and paralyzing terror, Buffy’s fingers had nearly closed over the smooth wood when Willow screamed, “Oz! Noooooooo!!”

Suddenly the stake, along with every book on the shelves around them, was hurled at the vampires by an unseen force. It all crashed into them with the power of a furious, frightened witch whose emotions had taken control of her latent magic. Old, heavy tomes slammed against captives and demons alike with solid thuds, knocking them all back. The sound and concussion of it was deafening, echoing through the large space and crashing back on them all a second time.

Buffy watched in horror as her stake was lost in the tumult of magic, sailing uselessly across the floor, buried beneath mounds of musty pages. Blair’s grip on Xander faltered and the boy began fighting harder to get free, his feet finally back on solid ground, or at least parchment and vellum. The larger demon holding Oz, however, barely seemed to notice the tsunami of leather-bound knowledge that had walloped him, though his demonic gaze focused on the red witch, who was panting with the effort of her unplanned attack.

“Little strawberry has some bite,” the vamp holding Oz observed. “I like it,” he taunted nastily, tossing Oz back to his cohort. “Hold this for me. I think I’ll start with dessert.”

Blair, already struggling with Xander, couldn’t manage to catch Oz, and they all crashed down in a tangled mass of arms and legs and ripping pages of Latin and Sumerian.

Kralik stepped out of the mountains of books, kicking them aside like soccer balls, and began stalking toward Willow, who was now bent over at the waist, trying to get her strength and breath back.

“NO!” Buffy and Oz yelled at once as Willow began to retreat on trembling legs, only to back into the counter as the demon reached for her.

Something inside Buffy suddenly clicked, her resolve coalescing into hardened determination, pushing the pain, terror, and doubt down. Conscious thought seemed to evaporate, leaving just her instincts. She was the Slayer. She saved people. She didn’t let the vampires win. She fought against all odds, and that was exactly what she had to do now. She had to do more than fight – she had to _win_. She had to save her friends.

The Slayer lowered her head and charged at the big vampire, ramming into him with her shoulder. Agony reverberated through her as she struck him and she cried out in pain as she bounced off, falling onto her ass.

“No cutting in line,” Kralik taunted, giving the small blonde a kick like he’d done the books and sending her sliding across the floor to crash into the opposite wall. “You’ll get your turn,” he assured the Slayer as he lifted Willow up, holding her to his chest like a ragdoll.

The witch screamed and punched and kicked at him as he calmly sniffed her neck, not seeming to notice she was even moving. “Mmmm… you are a ripe one,” he purred against her flushed skin. “I may keep you. Do you have a mother?”

In the next moment, Oz slammed into Kralik’s back, jostling him and making him take a step forward, but doing little more. Over by the book cage, Xander was hitting Blair over the head with a particularly thick spell book while the vampire swiped his claws at Xander between blows. Willow was screaming and thrashing, trying to get free of Kralik’s impossibly strong grip. Oz had grabbed one of her arms and was trying to pull his girlfriend out of the demon’s grasp. There were growls and roars and shrieks of terror and fury as pandemonium reined in the normally quiet space.

Buffy saw her stake sticking out from beneath a Latin dictionary and lunged for it, her fingers wrapping around it, gripping it tightly, naturally, as if were part of her. She pushed back to her feet with a grimace and a cry of pain, but pressed on, limping back toward the vampire that had Willow as quickly as she could. With Oz and Willow distracting him, she hobbled right up behind Kralik without notice, stake drawn back, ready to strike.

And then Blair yelled out a warning.

Kralik spun around and smacked the Slayer with his elbow, the blow landing on her already injured shoulder. The stake tumbled from her tingling fingers as pain radiated out, blazing like fire in her bones. Buffy cried out, the blow spinning her away, leaving her sprawled on the floor in front of the library’s double doors.

“I TOLD YOU TO WAIT YOUR TURN!” Kralik bellowed at her furiously. He wheeled around to face the Slayer, using his momentum to yank Willow’s arm from Oz’s grip. As he whirled, the vampire released his hold and sent the witch flying through the air like an athlete throwing a hammer in the Summer Olympics, with Willow playing the role of the projectile. The redhead screamed as she hurtled at maximum velocity toward the upper level of the library. Her scream came to a sudden and violent end when she crashed into one of the tall bookcases. She hit with enough force to crack the wood, and likely several ribs, and bring another small mountain of heavy volumes cascading down. Her small, limp body tumbled to the floor with the books, completely inert, broken.

“WILLOW!” Oz shrieked again, scrambling away from Kralik toward the stairs and his girlfriend.

Xander had managed to put some distance between himself and the battered Blair, and he hurried that way too, stumbling and falling over the piles of texts littering the floor. Buffy pushed herself back to her feet, facing the angry vampire, half bent over, panting and cradling her right arm against her chest.

“I guess … I just … couldn’t … wait,” Buffy gasped, trying to straighten up to face him. She suddenly felt a burble of hysterical laugher form in her chest as a certain blond vampire’s words, which had been uttered not far from this spot, echoed in her mind, _‘What can I say? I couldn't wait.’_

The memory, or perhaps the inappropriate laughter it had evoked, seemed to snap Buffy back to herself a little more, completely back into ‘Slayer mode’. She kept her eyes trained on the vampires, but could hear both Oz and Xander calling Willow’s name, interspersed with chants of, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Oz! Xander! Get out of here – take Willow and go!” the Slayer called to them, her rough voice cracking with the effort, keeping her eyes glued on the two approaching vampires.

“But, Buffy!” Xander objected, even as Oz began lifting Willow into his arms.

“GO!” she ordered, taking slow, shaky steps away from the vampires and toward the double doors.

She heard Oz urge Xander to help him, and, with one frightened look back at Buffy, Xander did. When the three disappeared behind the stacks, heading for the hidden door at the back, Buffy felt a small wave of relief wash over her. They were getting away – getting to safety.

When the two vampires turned back, considering pursuit of her friends, Buffy wiped a thick drop of blood from her lip with a finger and flicked it at Kralik. “You don’t want them… you want me,” she taunted as the droplets splattered over the ugly face of the big demon. “Champagne, remember? Yum, yum. So, come and get me…” she challenged, backing through the double doors, which swung closed, a flimsy barrier between her and the demons. The Slayer paused there, waiting, watching through the window, willing them to leave her friends alone and come after her. After what seemed an eternity, Kralik growled something at Blair and the two of them charged forward, right towards her.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Joyce paced through the house, watching the street outside through the picture window each time she passed through the living room. Buffy had called a little earlier and said that she’d be late at the library and would get a ride home from Mr. Giles. It sounded like the Watcher was finally taking this seriously, though when her daughter called, they still didn’t have any concrete leads about who or what was doing this to Buffy and Spike.

But that wasn’t who Joyce was looking for, who she was anxiously awaiting. When she’d gotten back after picking the dog up from the vet after his IV, there had been a message waiting on the machine. The frantic voice of the vampire had both alarmed and relieved her. Spike was coming. He was on the way. He would be here by nightfall.

He was late.

_‘Don’t do anything daft,_ ’ he’d admonished, along with a few other colorful phrases. Joyce was sure Buffy wouldn’t do anything ‘daft’. She was safe at the high school with Mr. Giles and her friends. Buffy wouldn’t go out into the night, Joyce was certain of that. The elder Summers hadn’t told Buffy about calling Spike, or about Spike coming. Buffy might insist Joyce call him back and tell him not to come. She figured it would be easier to get her daughter to accept whatever help Spike could offer with him sitting in the living room than trying to talk her into it before he got here. Joyce had learned that forgiveness for meddling in Slayer affairs was easier to get than permission; generally, it just took a shopping trip to Macy’s.

After that message from Spike, Joyce had rushed around getting things ready. The dog had new bowls for water and food, and a new bag and brand of kibble to go with them, just in case any of that was contaminated with the poison. The vampire had fresh containers of pig’s blood in the refrigerator. There was cocoa waiting to be made on the counter – with a full bag of little marshmallows alongside. She’d even picked up some hot chili peppers, like he’d mentioned on one of the postcards. For her and Buffy – and she supposed Spike, if he were inclined – there was a pot of spaghetti sauce with meatballs simmering on the stove and a box of penne pasta ready to be boiled.

Everything was ready – there just wasn’t anyone there yet to enjoy it.

So, Joyce paced from the kitchen (stirring the sauce each time), to the dining room, through the foyer, to the living room (checking the driveway as well as the answering machine, in case the phone had somehow rung and she didn’t hear it), through the sitting room and back into the kitchen. The dog had even walked with her a few times around, clearly feeling a bit better after the treatment at the vet’s. But he’d given up after a while and taken up his station beneath the stove, just in case anything dropped that needed to be gobbled up.

She considered the whiskey decanter on each pass, but kept going, waiting, worrying. Maybe he wasn’t coming after all. Maybe they’d never find any answers for her daughter. Maybe Buffy couldn’t be the Slayer any longer. While Joyce would’ve welcomed that news last year, she knew too much now about the world that lived in the shadows, and she knew too much about her daughter to embrace that idea now.

Buffy had changed; she was the Slayer; it was part of her. She needed her strength to fulfill her Calling… she needed her abilities back or she’d die, one way or another. Either by the hand of a demon or by simple despair, her daughter would die.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

As the vampires started for her, Buffy turned and ran. She ran as fast as she could. There was a knife in her lower back that stabbed into her with every step. There as a fire in her shoulder that burst into icy flames with every swing of her arm. There was cotton in her throat, making it hard to breathe, and slivers of glass in every joint which ground into her with every painful step.

One of the vampires caught up to her, grabbing her by the collar. She screeched and spun, ducking out of her red jacket, leaving him holding the empty scrap of fabric. She turned a corner, then another, their footsteps right behind her. They were taunting her, she knew – they could catch her if they had really been trying.

She needed a plan, but she hadn’t thought past getting them away from her friends. Axe! She could use an axe! Buffy stole a look behind her to judge the distance. She could just make it, she thought, coming around another corner and stopping in front of the case that held the fire axe. She punched the glass to break it, but her fist bounced off, the impact vibrating through her whole body and drawing a yelp of agony from her.

They were closing on her! She grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall, intent on using it as a club, but it was too heavy. It fell to the floor with a clang of metal, jarring her shoulder further.

“I thought you wanted your turn, Champagne,” Kralik taunted as he and Blair rounded the corner at a leisurely pace. “Come and get it.”

Panting, exhausted, aching, and out of time, Buffy fumbled the pin from the fire extinguisher, aimed the nozzle at the two vampires, and pulled the trigger. Foam coated the two demons as they threw their hands up and turned their backs to keep it from getting the chemicals in their faces. Buffy kept spraying madly, making them retreat around the corner. Just as she took off running again, she heard one of them screaming as if in pain and demanding, “Pills! Pills!” She didn’t stop to try and figure that out, just happy that she’d apparently hurt one of them – she thought it sounded like Kralik – and had hopefully slowed them down. The Slayer came to a fire exit and slammed against the heavy bar with her hip, bruising her battered body more, but in the next moment, she was outside.

She limped for the parking lot as quickly as her feet would move, half-dragging one leg, trying to cradle her right arm, her only thought was maybe Oz, Xander, and Willow would be there in Oz’s van. She heard the vampires open the door behind her as she rounded the side of the building and the parking lot came into view.

The very empty parking lot.

Tears of frustration blurred Buffy’s vision as she frantically tried to come up with another plan that didn’t include dying. She kept going, willing her body forward, trying to listen past her thudding heart for footsteps behind her. The street! Maybe she could get someone there to help her… give her a ride, rescue her from this nightmare. She headed that way, knowing Kralik and Blair were not far behind.

Suddenly, she heard tires squealing and she saw a car speed into the school’s lot. She turned, relief flooding her as she watched it head straight for the two vampires. Kralik and Blair dove out of the way, bits of white foam flying from their clothes as they rolled over the pavement. The car skidded and turned around sharply, this time heading for Buffy. It came to a stop next to her and the passenger door was flung open.

“Get in!” Giles ordered. He didn’t have to say it twice. Buffy was in and they were pulling away with as much gusto as the old Citroën could manage.

“Thank, God… Giles… thank you… oh, God…” she gasped, bent over at the waist as they jounced out of the parking lot and turned down the street.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt? Where are the others?” Giles demanded, looking in his rearview for pursuers before realizing he wouldn’t see them there. He turned his head and looked back, but no one seemed to be following them.

“They ran… Willow was hurt. We need to go back and make sure they got out!” Buffy croaked, finally sitting up and looking behind them herself, still holding her right arm immobile against her body.

“Can you hold a weapon?” he asked, gesturing with his head toward the back seat. Giles’ face was a mask of concern and determination as he turned and began around the block circling the school.

“I… I think so,” Buffy replied, looking in the back and seeing a few different choices – battle axes and a mace and a crossbow. She leaned back and reached wearily for the crossbow, her left hand shaking as it closed over the smooth wood. Sitting forward in her seat with the weapon, the Slayer strained to nock a bolt into it using her injured arm, grunting with effort to get the string pulled back. With one determined, painful yank, she finally got it cocked.

Buffy had just started to lift it, to aim it out the open passenger’s side window to be ready in case the vampires came into view, when the weapon fired. The bolt was embedded several inches into the dash of Giles’ car.

“Oops?” she squeaked, shrinking with shame.

“Perhaps the cross would be less… perilous?” he suggested, taking the crossbow from her and settling it next to himself on the seat.

“Right,” Buffy muttered, leaning over the seat again and picking up a plain, wooden cross that was about the size of her hand. She held it tightly, looking out the window, straining to see any sign of her friends or the vampires.

“I don’t see anyone,” the Watcher said after they’d made a complete circuit of the block. “Did Oz have his van? Perhaps they’ve gone to hospital.”

Buffy’s eyes were glued on the dark parking lots and green spaces around the school, but she didn’t see anything moving at all. “Maybe…” she agreed finally, worry clear in her voice.

“Are you badly injured?” Giles asked as he turned away from the school and headed for the hospital.

“No… I don’t think so,” she assured him, but she began to tremble now that the adrenaline spike was fading and the reality of the past few minutes began to overwhelm her. “I can’t keep doing this, Giles. I can’t! I can’t be this… this useless! This helpless! We have to fix it… fix _me_!”

Giles nodded, his mouth set in a grim line as he drove through the dark streets. “Y-yes,” he agreed uneasily, keeping his eyes steadfastly glued to the road.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike took a drag on his cigarette as he made the last turn onto Revello, tires squealing in protest as he rounded the corner. This was it. He was here. A bit later than he’d hoped, but he’d flown like a bat outta Hades the whole way from Arizona. Only way he could’ve made it sooner was if he could actually fly. Now he had to face the piper, he supposed. He shook his head. “You _pay_ the sodding piper… face the _music_ ,” he reminded himself, speeding up again as he barreled down the narrow, tree-lined street to 1630. “Thinking ‘bout the Slayer too much, you are.”

But he couldn’t help it. Buffy had been the only thing on his mind the whole way from Arizona. He’d played her message over and over, trying to understand the missing or choked-off words, trying to find any clues in there as to what had happened to her. Clearly, from Joyce’s message, Buffy and Cujo had lost their strength, and Joyce was hoping he’d know why and how to fix it.

He didn’t know; had never heard of it before. But he didn’t want to let Joyce down. Didn’t want to let Buffy down. So, he listened to the Slayer’s ranting, heart-wrenching, frantic message until the battery on the phone died. He tried to pick it apart, find clues in there, anything in her words or even her tone that would tell him what this was, but all it had done was make him more anxious, upset, and desperate.

Spike couldn’t give her what she needed, what she wanted. He was failing, again – just like he’d failed to be what Dru needed, what she wanted. Never enough. Never smart enough or clever enough or fast enough… never enough.

He was the Slayer of Slayers. The idea of Buffy’s light being snuffed from the world should fill him with glee, he should be here to kill her, should snap her neck like a cheap chopstick – but it wasn’t what he wanted.

He wanted the Slayer strong. He wanted her cheeky. He wanted her sanctimonious. He wanted her resourceful. He wanted her _alive_.

He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to be enough.

Maybe Dru was right – he’d gone soft.

“Soft in the head if ya think she’ll ever let you touch her,” he growled to himself, inhaling another hit of nicotine to try and calm his rattled nerves. He suddenly saw Buffy’s house fly past and he slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in front of 1632… one house too far.

Didn’t matter – close enough. He cut the motor and threw the door open before the car had settled on its shocks. One last orange flare from the end of his fag burned bright as he scrambled out. He dropped it to the pavement as he raced back to 1630, back to the Slayer who told him to never come back, back to face the piper.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Oz! Xander!” Buffy cried as she staggered through the ER doors and into the brightly lit hospital.

The two bruised and battered boys turned to face her, relief evident in both of their expressions.

“Buffy! Thank God!” Xander exclaimed as he met her halfway, pulling her into a tight hug. “You got away! Are you okay?”

“Ribs! Air!” Buffy complained, trying to free herself from his embrace. “Where’s Willow? Is she okay?” she asked when she could breathe again, looking from Xander to Oz as Giles came up behind her.

“They’re still looking her over,” Oz offered. “She woke up on the way here, though… which, as signs go, is a good one.”

Buffy nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. “Can we see her?”

“Not yet,” Xander explained. “She’s getting x-rayed. They said they’d come get us when they were done. They think maybe she has some cracked ribs.”

The Slayer nodded again then hobbled over and sat down heavily in one of the orange, plastic chairs. She propped her elbows on her thighs and dropped her face into her hands as tears welled in her eyes. She was swamped with emotions, everything from thankfulness that her friends got out, to worry about Willow, to frustration about her inability to protect them or herself, to fear that they’d never find the culprit, that there was no antidote, that she’d be just this helpless forever. On the bright side, forever wouldn’t be too long – certainly no longer than it would take Spike to drive up from Brazil. Though, the way things were going, she doubted she’d last that long.

Giles sat down next to her. “Do you need to see a doctor, my dear?” he asked, laying a gentle hand on her back.

Buffy stifled a gasp as pain shot through her shoulder. She shook her head, her face still buried in her hands. “What I need,” she gulped through her tears. “Is to be me again.” She turned her bruised, battered, tear-streaked face to him, her eyes imploring, heartbroken, afraid. “I can’t be this way, Giles. We have to fix this – I just… I can’t… please, _please_ help me,” she begged, leaning into him as sobs shook her small frame.

“I-I believe… What I mean to say is…” he stammered, wrapping an arm around her thin shoulders as she cried against his chest. “Let’s find a room where we can talk,” the Watcher suggested, standing and tugging her up with him. “Over here, perhaps...” he said, guiding her to an empty triage room.

“Why? What’s going on? Did you find out something? Is that the errand you ran?” she babbled, sniffing her tears back, her heart soaring with hope.

“Um, well, you could say that, yes,” he agreed, opening the door to the room and allowing her to proceed him before pulling the door closed.

“What is it? Tell me!” Buffy demanded, whirling on him. Her face bloomed with eagerness, her shimmering eyes bright and excited for the first time in what seemed forever to Giles.

The Watcher stepped over to the exam table and set a leather briefcase up on it that Buffy hadn’t noticed him carrying until then. Her brows furrowed as he reached in and pulled out a smaller case and opened it to reveal a syringe and a vial of golden-brown liquid.

“W-what?” she stammered, unable to comprehend.

“It… It's, uh… an organic compound – which is why it did not show on the tests that were run on you. It contains muscle r-relaxants and adrenal suppressers,” he stammered, his voice clogged with emotion. “T-the effect is temporary. You'll be yourself a-again in a few days,” he revealed ashamedly. “Spike as well,” he added, reaching in and bringing out a Ziploc bag of the same treats he’d given her on several occasions for the dog.

“I d-don’t understand… Y-You?” she stammered, looking up from the items on the table to meet his eyes, hers now filled with confusion and pain. “It was… all you? It wasn’t Angel. It wasn’t the Powers. There are no… no chameleon demons, no shapeshifters?”

“No… no, I’m afraid not,” he confirmed.

“Just you?” Buffy muttered, her eyes drifting around the room, unable to focus on anything, as she became lost in the jumble of thoughts running through her mind. “How... when?”

Giles swallowed though his mouth was dry. “During your focus lessons. The blue stone has... preternatural properties which...”

Giles went on, pulling the large blue crystal out of his briefcase as well and placing it on the exam table, but Buffy had stopped listening, her mind thinking back to her dream. “Wolf in sheep’s clothing… in plain sight… think they’re gods… from another land… watch and scheme…” The Slayer stopped and looked back up at him. “She… she was right about it all… I just… I couldn’t see it. Even the cars in the street… they were all… your car. She knew… Fuck! …She fucking knew!”

Buffy remembered Spike telling her on the road trip that Dru’s visions and messages often made sense _after_ you knew the answer, after whatever she’d warned about happened. Which was extremely helpful in a way that was _not_.

“It's a test, Buffy,” Giles explained when Buffy grew silent again. He turned and stepped away from her, unable to stand the pain in her eyes. “I-It’s called the Tento di Cruciamentum… a-a rite of passage. It's given to the Slayer once she... uh, well, _if_ she reaches her eighteenth birthday. The Slayer is disabled and then entrapped with a vampire foe whom she must defeat in order to pass the test. The vampire you were to face has killed his captors, turned one of them and... escaped – as I believe you know. He was one of the vampires in the parking lot this evening; the other, I believe was a Council operative named Blair who had been assigned to guard him. The escaped vampire’s name is Zackary Kralik. As a mortal, he murdered and tortured more than a dozen women before he was committed to an asylum for the criminally insane. When a vamp...”

Buffy blinked, his speech finally registering through the thick fog of confusion that swirled around her mind. She picked up the blue stone and hurled it at the back of Giles’ head, but it landed well short, falling at his feet with a thud, but it cut off his horrible words. He turned at the sound just as she picked up the case with the syringe in it and flung it at the man. It smacked into his chest feebly, though she at least got a flinch from him. The case came open when it hit, the syringe and vial falling to the floor and rolling in opposite directions.

“I am incredibly sorry—” Giles began, his heart in his hands.

“You bastard!!!” the broken girl screamed at him, her heartbreak turning into fury. “All this time! You saw what it was doing to me. What it was doing to Spike! You poisoned _my dog_! You poisoned _me_! All this time, and you didn't say a word! How could you!? I _begged_ you to help me! I trusted you! I… I… I thought… you l-lo—you cared about me,” she wailed, her words nearly swallowed by her gulping sobs.

“I do! I care more than I can say! I wanted to tell—”

“LIAR!” she shrieked at him, tears streaming down her face, her broken heart on the verge of pounding out of her chest and shattering on the cold, sterile floor. “You don’t know what love is! How could you do this? How… why… I… am I that horrible? Such a terrible disappointment that you wanted to _kill_ me?”

“Buffy, my dear – no, no, please. It’s not that at all. Quite the contrary. You must understand,” he begged, taking a step nearer the distraught girl. “It was not my decision. In matters of tradition and protocol, I must answer to the Council. My role in this w-was very specific. I was to administer the serum to you and incapacitate Spike – you couldn’t have assistance from him or the test would be invalid. I was then to direct you to the old boardinghouse on Prescott Lane for the trail itself. That’s where they were holding Kralik.”

Buffy found herself shaking her head, her battered hands covering her ears, her eyes blurred with the anguish of another betrayal. Another man who she’d trusted, who she’d loved, had lied to her, had let her down, had turned into a monster before her eyes. Was she such a terrible person that no one at all could love her? That she ruined everything she touched? That even someone whose literal job was to keep her safe would turn on her? “I can't... I can't hear this—” she muttered.

“Buffy, please,” Giles plead, his own eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “I cannot tell you how truly sorry I am.” The Watcher took another step closer and reached out to touch her, but Buffy flinched back from him, her grief once again blossoming into anger.

“If you touch me, I will kill you,” she ground out in a gravelly voice. Her eyes narrowed in challenge as her swollen hands curled into fists at her sides.

Giles stepped back, holding his arms out, palms up in submission. “You must listen to me,” he said imploringly. “Because I've told you this, the test is invalidated. You will be safe now, I promise you. Now, whatever I have to do to deal with Kralik... and to win back your trust...”

“MY TRUST?” she screeched, her throat burning with the effort. “ _My trust?!_ You stuck a needle in me! You poisoned me! You poisoned Spike! I could’ve died… my friends – _your_ friends, _people who trusted you_ – could have died tonight! Because _I_ couldn’t protect them! _MY TRUST?!_ I don’t _have_ any trust. My trust was in that syringe!” she declared, stepping over to where it lay on the floor. She lifted her foot brought her boot down on it, smashing it and grinding it into dust. She turned a flinty glare back on him, hiding the wince of pain from her display. “And it’s just as shattered. So you don’t have to worry about winning it back.”

“Buffy, I’m begging you…” he began.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been begging _you_ – see how well that worked out,” she shot back as she pushed past him, sending more shards of burning ice blistering through her shoulder.

“Buffy, please, I implore you…” Giles continued as she yanked the door open.

“Go to hell,” Buffy snarled over her shoulder as she emerged into the bright ER waiting area.

Oz and Xander were right there outside the door, looking at the two of them with horrified expressions.

“Buffy… Giles… what’s…?” Xander started, but stopped when Buffy leveled her tearful, angry gaze on him.

“Is Willow okay?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re… yeah, she’s okay. Cracked ribs, maybe a concussion. They’re keeping her overnight just for observation,” Xander replied, his eyes darting between her and Giles.

Buffy nodded, once again cradling her right arm against her body. “I need a ride home… Oz, could I—?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, his normally implacable expression confused and worried.

“Would now-ish work for you?” she asked when he didn’t move.

Oz looked at Xander with an arched brow. Xander took the meaning and said, “I’ll stay with Willow until you get back.”

“Now-ish is definitely workable,” the redhead confirmed, turning his attention back to Buffy and pulling his keys from his pocket.

“Thank you,” Buffy murmured as she followed him toward the parking lot.

Xander hesitated before returning to Willow’s side, looking from Giles to Buffy and back again. “What the hell did you do?” he asked the Watcher.

Giles shook his head, blinking back tears. “Made a very grave error.”

  
**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARDS**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find** [ **it at this link.** ](https://flic.kr/p/2kEQEjo)

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find**[ **it at this link.**](https://flic.kr/p/2kEUPXn)

* * *

**End notes:**

Thank you so much for reading!! Everyone’s in Sunnydale now, so you’ll see more references to fluffy or furry Spike or less-furry Spike ... It’s gonna be fun keeping out two Spike’s properly identified, but hopefully it works!

My theory on Kralik and Blair: In canon, they happened to run into Buffy on the way to the library. Blair didn’t know where Buffy lived, but knew her Watcher would be at the library. When Kralik got Buffy’s jacket/scent, then he was able to track it and identify her house (it’s a theory!). This time, since they didn’t run into Buffy in the street, they made it all the way to the library. Oh, and got her jacket/scent again _... uh-oh._

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	8. Friends and Foes

****

* * *

**Chapter Notes:**

Everyone’s in Sunnydale now, so I won’t be prefacing different sections with where they are.

No doggies were harmed in the making of this story, though it might seem otherwise sometimes. 

**Thanks** : To all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Jelly Bellies for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying to your comments, but I promise to get caught up soon.

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Friends and Foes**

* * *

From the living room, Joyce saw him through the window just before his heavy boots hit the stairs. A familiar figure bathed in the porchlight, his duster flaring out behind him as he bounded forward. Spike was here. He’d made it. He hadn’t changed his mind. Joyce’s heart hammered in her chest, full of hope that the vampire would have the answers for them, for her girl. Hope that everything would be all right now.

Spike’s fist hovered over the door, prepared to knock, though stopped short of striking the wood. He had no answers for them – nothing to offer either of the Summers women who had called him. Nothing but disappointment. And yet… he was here. His hand two inches from rapping on their door. Two inches from Buffy. He swallowed and had just steeled his nerve when the door was flung open.

Light flooded out from inside, blinding him for a moment. He thought he felt his heart thrum in his chest for the barest of moments, one thought foremost in his mind. ‘ _Buffy_!’

“Spike! You made it!” Joyce exclaimed, relief evident in her tone. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

Before Spike knew what was happening, she’d wrapped him in a hug. Spike stiffened for a moment, the memory of the cursed chocolate experience from his last visit rushing through his mind, but then realized that wasn’t it at all. She was genuinely glad he’d come, happy to see him. A flood of affection suffused him, fluttering like a soft breeze on a summer’s day, warming his heart, freeing it from the frozen desert it had been trapped in for so long. He relaxed and wrapped his arms around her, returning the embrace with the same fondness it was given. In friendship. He had friends, it seemed, after all.

“Sorry I’m late, pet,” he rumbled. “Sodding wankers on the roads driving like lost snails, dunno where they are or where they’re goin’, but they’re bloody well determined to go there slowly.”

Joyce chuckled and nodded, pulling back and swiping at her damp eyes. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to call… I…”

“No worries,” he assured her as she backed up to allow him to come in. Spike held his breath and took a step over the threshold. She hadn’t actually invited him in, but no barrier stopped him – his invitation had not been revoked. Another radiant glow flooded his chest and he ducked his head, giving the woman a shy smile as he came all the way in.

“WHOOOFF!” Spike exclaimed, trotting in from the kitchen, tail wagging eagerly. “Woof! Woof!” he added happily before slamming into his namesake’s legs with a shoulder block and knocking the vampire back a step.

“Oi! Thought we were mates,” the vampire objected good-naturedly, catching his balance before crouching down to rough-up the big dog’s coat, scratching briskly up and down his neck and flanks. “What’s this I hear ‘bout you trying to welch on our deal, not protecting the Slayer?” he asked, catching the dog’s jowls between his hands and holding his face still. The vampire looked into the Guardian’s soft brown eyes, leaning in nose to nose and bringing his demon up in direct challenge.

Friends or not, based on what Buffy had learned of the dog’s heritage and breeding, Spike thought that should’ve triggered an immediate response from a Guardian of the Twilight. “Let’s see yours now, Cujo,” he encouraged. When no blue-white fire flashed in the dog’s brown eyes and only the barest rumble sounded from his chest, the vampire added a growl, then shook him, attempting to provoke an appropriate response to the threat. Instead, the dog whined and licked Spike’s face with a hot, sloppy kiss.

“Bloody hell,” Spike complained, flinching back. The vampire released his hold of the animal as he wiped the slobber off his face with the back of his hand. “Not that kinda friends, mate,” he admonished the dog, standing back up and letting his demon fade.

“He’s actually feeling better, if you can believe it,” Joyce revealed as the Guardian sat down, then slid down onto his belly, his eyes still attentive and curious, watching the vampire. “I had him tested for poisons today and they found signs of alkaloids in his blood, though they couldn’t tell the exact poison used. They treated him – IV flush and some meds – and I changed his food and bowls and everything.” She sighed heavily, wringing her hands. “I’m not sure what else to do.”

“What kinda bloody coward would poison the mutt?”

Joyce shrugged. “That’s kinda what I hoped you might know… or help us figure out.”

“Poisoning the Slayer then, too?” Spike asked worriedly.

“It doesn’t seem so. I took her to the hospital today and they couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary,” Joyce relayed, still wringing her hands nervously. Catching a whiff of the sauce simmering on the stove, she asked, “Um, d-do you… I mean, are you hungry? I’ve got blood for you – like before – and hot cocoa… and the pasta can be done in just a minute if you want any of that.”

Even though Spike knew it was pig’s blood – barely fit for human consumption, let alone a vampire’s – his stomach growled its eagerness. He hadn’t fed on the cartel’s drug dealers the previous night. Well, not after the first one, at any rate, which left his mouth and tongue numb and the rest of him jittery. He’d planned to have a quick nip before he got to the Slayer’s house, but… well, that didn’t exactly work out.

Spike’s expression suddenly turned dour as a horrible thought skittered through his mind. A knot of worry twisted his empty belly as he asked, “Keep blood on hand, do ya? Reckon the great forehead stops in on the regular?”

“The great fore—?” Joyce began, shaking her head in confusion. “Oh! You mean Angel? No. He’s not… he doesn’t stop in. I got it fresh, for you… when I got your message.”

A supremely pleased smile spread over Spike’s face, his blue eyes glittering with affection for the woman, as well as relief. Angel didn’t stop by, eh? 

“That’s right thoughtful, pet. A cuppa wouldn’t go amiss. Am a bit peckish,” he admitted.

Joyce smiled, happy to be able to do _something_. She closed the front door now that the dog and vampire had moved out of the entryway, and turned for the kitchen.

Spike began to follow her. He had a thousand more questions he wanted to ask – how did they get his phone number, when did all this start, did they have any leads at all, but the one that came out as he looked up the stairs was, “Slayer all tucked up in bed, then?”

“No, no… she’s with Mr. Giles and her friends at the high school,” Joyce explained, glancing back to look at him as she made her way through the dining room. “They’ve been trying to find out what’s—”

“What?!” Spike interrupted, panic starting to wash back through him. “Got my message, yeah? Didn’t ya hear the part about not doing anything daft?” He couldn’t get this close to the Slayer and still lose her!

“No, she’s fine – I spoke to her a little while ago. They’re at the school, perfectly safe…”

“The same school I crashed into with a whole bloody gang o’ minions… _that school_?” he demanded, raising his brows, his hands going to his hips.

“Oh. Well, when you put it that way,” Joyce acquiesced, stopping and turning to look at him, her own trepidation growing. “I’ll… I’ll just call and check on her, see when she’ll be home,” she suggested, heading for the phone.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oz asked as Buffy climbed into the passenger seat of his van in the hospital parking lot.

She shook her head, in a daze. This… it had to be a dream, right? A nightmare. An alternate universe. A hell dimension. Giles must’ve drunken some evil Kool-Aid or been taken over by a demon or had a spell cast on him. How could he have done this otherwise? How… how could he hate her so much?

Oz started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading for Buffy’s house. The only sounds were the tires as they ‘shushed’ along the pavement and the low rumble of the motor. Neither one spoke for a long time as they made their way towards Revello Drive.

“Am I a horrible person?” Buffy’s hoarse whisper broke the silence as she turned and looked at the guy that Willow loved. Willow – her best friend, who was now in the hospital because of what Giles had done.

“I'd call that a radical interpretation of the text,” he replied, glancing over at her.

“Then why… why does everyone…” Buffy’s gravelly voice trailed off, her head shaking slowly to and fro.

“Okay, I pretty much missed out on some stuff, because this is all making a kind of sense that's... not,” Oz admitted. “But I’m not seeing the ‘everyone’ here. Clearly, something’s up with Giles, but add this and stir: Willow couldn’t love you more if you were her actual sister. Do you think Willow’s a bad person?”

“No, but…”

“So, if a good person like Willow can love you, then how could you be bad?” Oz wondered.

Buffy covered her face with her hands again as fresh wave of tears shuddered through her. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, her head still shaking as if she could make it all go away with the simple act of denial.

“Good people can make bad choices – not because they don’t love you, but pretty much because: human,” Oz pointed out. “Sometimes, if we care about them enough, we find ways to forgive them – give them another chance.”

“Like you did Willow,” Buffy croaked.

“As an example,” Oz confirmed stoically.

“This is more than a… a kiss in the closet,” she pointed out.

“Betrayal is betrayal.” Oz shrugged. “Still doesn’t make you a bad person. And it’s not ‘everyone’. Check out the lack of malice,” he entreated her, waving a hand around the van.

Buffy snorted, but could not stop her head from continuing its back and forth track, wishing the awful truth would just go away.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike paced back and forth from the foyer to the living room, his boots loud in the quiet house. All thought of eating or drinking anything had been immediately usurped with worry about the Slayer. The phone Joyce held to her ear rang and rang. No one was picking up at the library. “Maybe they’re on the way home,” Joyce suggested, chewing her lip as she put the receiver back in the cradle.

“I best go see,” Spike offered, whirling toward the door as the panic he was barely keeping in check began to boil over.

Before he got back to the foyer, the dog jumped up and gave a loud bark at the door, his eyes fixed on it intently.

“Buffy?” Joyce called worriedly, heading for the door, making the vampire step aside to let her pass. Even though Spike wanted nothing more than to pull the Slayer into his arms and check that she was uninjured, he had no idea how Buffy would feel about that. He had no idea how she’d even feel about him being back in town, back in her house, for that matter. Best to bide his time, feel things out, see where he stood with the chit.

Just as Joyce pulled the door open, both Spikes realized something was very wrong and many things began happening almost simultaneously. As soon as the door was open enough for him to get out, the dog rushed past Joyce. The Guardian headed directly for the prone figure draped in Buffy’s red jacket that was lying on the porch, his warning bark resuming. Joyce stepped out behind him, her eyes lighting on what appeared to be her daughter curled up on the porch, just in front of the swing. Thinking that the dog was upset because Buffy had been injured, she hurried forward, trying to reach her girl. Inside, the vampire yelled a warning, “No!” just a moment too late, as he flew forward to pull the elder Summers back into the house.

Before the blond vampire could get onto the porch, there was a thud of impact, the dog let out a yelp of pain, and went flying through the air, out into the yard. He landed with a ground-rattling thump and rolled to a stop against one of the trees. Joyce shrieked in surprise and fear. She jerked back from a grotesque-looking brunette vampire who had emerged from beneath Buffy’s coat. The demon lunged for her, huge hands reaching for her legs, preparing to pull them out from under her. Before the strange vampire’s fingers could close on any part of her body, Spike yanked her back, tossing her unceremoniously into the house, behind the protection of the threshold.

With the dog woozy and incapacitated in the yard, the vampire rushed out onto the porch as Joyce landed on her back on the hardwood and skidded several feet down the hallway. “STAY INSIDE!” Spike ordered her as his boot cracked against the jaw of the vampire wearing the Slayer’s coat just as he tried to rise.

“Where’s the Slayer!?” Spike growled, his golden eyes burning with rage as he reached down to yank the vampire up by his shirt-collar. _Couldn’t be too late._ He ripped Buffy’s coat off the other vamp’s shoulders and waved it in front of him like a matador’s cape. “Where the fuck’d you get this?” Spike demanded. _Couldn’t be too late._

“Bubbly little blonde gave it to me,” the brunette replied with a vulgar grin, which opened the nasty gash from Spike’s boot wider. He ran his tongue over his fangs and lips, licking the dribbling blood from them. “Tasted like champagne. Liked to play.”

Spike exploded with fury. He drew an arm back and slammed his fist into the brunette’s jaw, whiplashing his head to the side. “Where is she?!” he screamed as he shook the other vamp violently.

“What? Did you want a piece o’ that? Not much left, but I’ll share what there is,” the brunette goaded, sneering lewdly.

“If you hurt her...!!” Spike threatened, yanking his arm back again and smashing it into the smug vampire’s mouth, loosening a fang in the process.

“Oh, do it again,” the brunette taunted, pressing his tongue against a new, bleeding wound and lifting his square jaw in invitation. “It tickles.”

When Spike drew his left arm back to hit him again, the brunette spun, ripping his shirt and pulling out of Spike’s grip. He bounded off the porch and out of reach, turning as he landed, ready and waiting for Spike’s pursuit. The brunette was not disappointed. With no real plan other than ‘ _kill’_ , Spike leapt after him with a roar of frustration, rage, and icy fear. Had he been too late, after all? Had this cretin killed his Slayer? _His_ bloody Slayer!

The brunette ducked under the blond while Spike was in the air, lifting at the last moment, and sending Spike tumbling ass over teakettle into the street. Spike’s head cracked on the pavement like a ripe melon, and colorful stars danced behind his eyelids as he came to rest against a parked car. Before the blond could recover, the dog got back to his feet and was staggering toward the intruder, fangs bared in challenge.

The brunette laughed manically as the dog approached, turning to face him. “Aren’t you cute? I used to eat dogs like you for breakfast when I was a boy,” he mocked, taking two limping strides and kicking the Guardian in the ribs, again sending him hurtling through the air, this time to smash against the porch steps.

“Spike! No!” Joyce cried, standing in the open doorway, frantic with fear as the dog grunted with pain and rolled limply down the stairs, becoming little more than a mound of unmoving fur at the bottom.

Vampire-Spike had gotten back to his feet and was stalking toward the still-chuckling, clearly-insane brunette. “Why don’cha pick on someone your own size, you bloody tosser?”

The cretin turned around to face the blond, the smile never leaving his face. “I like ‘em small and tight… you know what I mean?” he needled, making a show of adjusting his crotch. “They just scream so much louder when I rip them open.”

Blind fury detonated inside Spike again as the thought of this… this _monster_ touching Buffy flashed like nitro in his mind, igniting a blinding fire in his blood. He roared and charged the other vampire like a linebacker zeroing in on a quarterback. Spike crashed into the brunette, wiping the smirk off his ugly face with a brutal tackle. The furious blond rode the interloper to the ground, driving the breath out of him with a grunt of pain, and smashing the back of his skull against the hard concrete of the walkway.

Despite the blow to the head, the brunette was able to use Spike’s momentum against him. Bucking his hips up with a violent jerk as he hit, the bigger vamp flipped his attacker over his head and off. A matching grunt of pain ripped from the blond’s throat when he landed, but neither vampire stayed down long. In the next moment, they were back on their feet, crouched, ready to spring, circling each other, looking for an opening.

Neither seemed inclined to wait long, however. In just a few moments, they both barreled forward, fists flying and fangs flashing. The impact shook the ground, something akin to two freight trains hitting head on. Spike was staggered back by a heavy blow to his nose, but he kicked out as he stepped back, his boot connecting with the other vampire’s danglies. But pain wasn’t registering for either of the enraged demons. They met and parted again and again. Rushing forward and retreating, kicking, punching, spinning, ducking, evading. Blood was drawn. Bones cracked. Bruises bloomed. Fangs flashed. Grunts of pain and growls of fury filled the air as they struck and parried, too equally matched for either to gain a clear advantage.

In the middle of the melee, Spike saw out of the corner of his eye something that made his blood turn to ice: Joyce. Out of the house. Vulnerable. “Joyce! No!”

The small distraction was all his opponent needed. In the next moment, Spike found himself being lifted off the ground and driven into one of the huge trees in the yard. He felt ribs crack as his body was crushed between the immovable wood and the raging vampire. Spike’s head was the next thing to crash against the trunk, the blow sending the world spinning sideways on its axis. The blond blinked and reached out for something to steady himself on, some way to stop the sickening motion. He found nothing but open air as he slid down, landing in the grass with a dismal groan.

“Love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a mother to reunite with her little girl,” the brunette said casually as he turned his back on Spike and headed for the house. He was limping, bleeding from several gashes and gouges, and overall worse for wear, but still upright, still undusty, still dangerous. The crazy vampire grinned as Joyce looked up from her mission, trying to drag the unconscious dog up the stairs and back inside. The vamp chuckled wickedly. Fear. Could never get enough of the sweet scent of a mother’s fear. It was better than any drug he’d ever snorted, swallowed, or shot into his veins. A mother’s fear was a high that made him yearn for flesh, for blood; it made him impossibly hard and blissfully violent. And it was filling his undead lungs now in hot, wicked surges.

Spike shook his head, desperate to clear the overwhelming waves of spiraling fireworks from his vision. “NO! FUCK!” he roared again, staggering back to his feet. The world tilted and spun, and he wavered dangerously, trying to move forward. He clenched his jaw, catching his balance as he pushed through the pain, and began moving as fast as his wobbly legs could take him toward the house – toward the Slayer’s mum.

The cocky brunette had underestimated Spike’s ability to endure pain, or perhaps his speed, because even with the ground spinning beneath him, the blond caught up to him. Spike slammed into the intruder with his shoulder, sending fresh shockwaves of agony through his own cracked ribs. The impact knocked the other vamp down and off the path, away from the Slayer’s mum, who had still been struggling valiantly, but fruitlessly, to get the dog to safety. Spike nearly fell also, but managed to keep his feet by sheer force of will, though more spots of blinding color splintered across his vision with the effort.

“INSIDE!” Spike ordered, blinking to clear the pain and regain focus as he moved away from the downed vampire with the same speed he’d used to overtake him. Joyce’s head jerked up at the commotion and Spike’s order, but she still had a hold of two of the dog’s legs as she fought to get the Guardian up the steps. Spike didn’t wait for her to comply. With a bounding step, he leapt over the prone mound of fur and grabbed the woman as he flew by. Joyce’s grip on the dog was jarred free as the vampire pulled her with him into the house. Spike tried to cushion her fall as they both crashed onto the foyer floor, arms and legs tangled. He grunted as she landed atop him, sending a whole set of Ginsu knives – _order now and get another set absolutely free! Just pay additional shipping and handling!_ – slicing through his ribcage and into his lungs.

“What the fuck were you thinking!?” Spike growled, panting for air and trying to get up. At last, he made it back to his feet, all the while clutching his side, trying to keep those knives from slicing any deeper. He thought it had only taken a moment or two, but when he finally made it back outside, both the brunette and the dog were gone. He jogged down the walkway, wincing and holding his ribs the whole way. He looked up and down the street, but saw nothing.

The blond took a deep inhalation through his bloodied nose. The motion brought in a third set of knives to stab into his flesh, twisting his ribs torturously. Ignoring the pain, he slowly turned his face this way, then that, then stopped, looking to the left. He knew they went that way… he could track them. Spike took a step, determined to do just that, but stopped, looking back at the house and the disheveled woman silhouetted in the doorway. The crazy bastard didn’t want the fucking dog… he wanted the Slayer’s mum. If Spike went after the dog, he’d leave the house, and Joyce, unguarded. While that box o’ rocks couldn’t get in, there were plenty of ways to get frightened humans to come out, and Joyce was most assuredly frightened.

But did that vamp have Buffy? Or only her jacket? Was he just talking big? Vampires did love to talk big – if all vamps that claimed to have been at the crucifixion had really been there, it would’ve been bigger than Woodstock.

Spike tried to get his frenzied emotions under control so he could think. He hadn’t smelled any Slayer blood on the arsehole… maybe he’d been bluffing.

“Bloody fucking hell!” he snarled, pacing in a circle at the end of the walk, cradling his ribs, not sure what to do.

“Spike? What’s happening? Where’s… where’s Spike?” Joyce cried in a tremulous voice as she once again started down the porch steps.

“Would you get inside the sodding house, for fuck’s sake!?” Spike screamed, taking off running toward her again. Every step was a jolt of agony through Spike’s torso, but he didn’t slow, afraid the other vamp could’ve circled back and was lying in wait for this chance to grab the Slayer’s mum.

Joyce stopped and looked around jerkily, her eyes wide with terror.

“In the house!” the vampire repeated as he reached her, spinning her around by her shoulders and marching her back up the stairs.

“B-But Spike! He took Spike!” she protested.

“Yeah, and lettin’ him take you won’t get the bloody mutt back!” the vampire pointed out, getting her inside and slamming the door closed behind them. He began pacing again, running one hand through his curls as his other patted his pockets, looking for his fags. He stopped suddenly and looked up at Joyce. “Call the Slayer’s mates – see if they’ve seen her – the Watcher too!”

“But … _Spike_ …” she stammered, not fully comprehending.

“Forget the mongrel for a sodding minute – we need to find your daughter,” he insisted.

“Buffy… he… he had her coat.”

“Give the girl a Kewpie doll. Now… ring them up – see if they know where she is, where they saw her last,” he ordered, turning her toward the phone by the couch.

“Right… okay,” Joyce stammered, reaching for the phone, but stopping. “The… the numbers are in the kitchen,” she told Spike.

“Kitchen it is, then,” he agreed, walking the stunned woman that way, every step jarring his ribs, sliding bone against bone in curiously painful ways.

As Joyce tried to settle her mind and begin calling Buffy’s friends, Spike, once again, began to pace – ribs be damned. This time he ran a circuit from the kitchen through the dining room, into the foyer, then back down the hall, through the sitting room and into the kitchen again. He smelled the pot of sauce on the stove, which had begun to burn, and turned it off as Joyce called Willow, but only got her answering machine.

He stopped and considered the fridge for a moment. Now that his adrenaline was waning, his energy was going with it. Spike needed blood to heal, to recharge his depleted reserves of energy. When was the last time he’d really fed well? He tried to remember… not last night, not the night before… there were several hazy nights that he couldn’t remember… He shook his head, giving up. The lack of sleep didn’t help his recollection any, either. When had he slept last? A few hours in the car at that truck stop… was that a day ago now? Or two? 

Spike was reaching for the refrigerator door and Joyce had just started dialing Giles’ number when Spike heard someone trying to get in the front door.

“Stay here!” Spike ordered the woman in a low, but stern voice. “I bloody well mean it,” he growled as he hurried through the sitting room and up the hallway toward the foyer. 

As he strode down the hall, a bruised, battered, nearly-broken Slayer trudged in. Spike froze, mid-stride. His heart exploded with relief and agony, anger and joy. He wasn’t too late! She was here! She was alive. But she was hurt, beaten, limping. Her heart thundered like a drum in his ears, the unmistakable power of her tingling down his spine, the scent of her tears heavy in the air.

“Buffy!” he exclaimed, his boots moving again, propelling him toward her of their own accord.

Buffy’s head shot up at the sound of his voice, the feel of his aura practically vibrating inside the house like a hum of electricity. Her heart skipped a micro-beat, joy enveloping every ounce of pain and betrayal she’d endured these past days. A wave of relief washed through her, feeling like heaven after the hell she’d been living in. Spike had come; her friend was here!

In the next instant, her bloodshot eyes found him, and bulged with comprehension, a frisson of fear skittering up and down her spine, reality crashing down on her like a lead balloon.

William the Bloody was here. The Slayer of Slayers was in her house. And she was weak and wounded. Her fears were made flesh and bone and coming towards her! _No, no, no!_ Instinctively, she scrabbled at her waistband for her stake, only then remembering she’d lost it at the library.

“MOM! SPIKE! WHERE ARE YOU!?” she tried to scream, though it came out as a croak through her rough throat, her hand digging frantically into her pocket. She couldn’t let it all end like this… Not now…

Spike stopped short when she spoke, holding out his hands, palms up, in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner. “Slayer—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Where are they?” Buffy demanded, her voice rough, her eyes crazed as she took in the blood coating the vampire’s face Who’s blood? Her dog’s? Her mom’s? She produced the cross Giles had given her, ignoring the sharp biting betrayal that zinged through her as it touched her fingers, and held it up shakily, thrusting it toward him. “My mom! Spike! What did you do to them?! Tell me!”

“Nothing, for fuck’s sake! I—”

“How did you get here so fast? Are you with them? The Council? Kralik? TELL ME!” the Slayer demanded, as she bent down with a grunt and grimace of pain and retrieved a stake from the basket by the door, never taking her eyes off the master vampire.

“What the hell’re you on about, Slayer?! Not with anyone, you daft bint!” he snarled, moving forward again with fast, indignant strides, the pain in his ribs overshadowed by his growing anger and frustration. He’d driven like a fucking madman, had been frantic with worry, and this was the welcome he got?! What the bloody hell had he been thinking?

Buffy jerked back up, stake in one hand, cross in the other, both trembling with fear and exhaustion, knowing this was all her fault. If anything had happened to her mom… “Don’t lie to me!” she squeaked, her voice giving way under the strain, despite every effort to keep it strong.

“Not soddin’ lying!” he barked, reaching for the cross and yanking it from her hand. His fingers smoldered, smoke rising from them where they touched the wood.

Buffy’s eyes went wide, disbelieving, her terror ratcheting up several notches as she watched him holding the cross as if… as if it were nothing at all. Her chin quivered, her mind flooding with images of her mother and dog crumpled and dying in a heap somewhere in the house. Of this vampire wiping their blood from his lips as he waited in ambush for her to come home… waited for his third Slayer to just walk into his trap.

And she’d done just that. God, she really was a reckless disappointment, wasn’t she?

“When ‘ave I ever lied to you, Slayer?” Spike ground out before he tossed the cross onto the sofa in the living room, wincing as a slip of burned skin caught and ripped.

Buffy shrieked in terrified rage, pulling the stake back to strike. Her heart twisted with remorse and guilt. She didn’t want to do this. Not to Spike. She’d called him, set them on this collision course. _Reckless_. All she’d wanted was to talk to him, but now he was here to kill her. Everyone betrayed her. Why would Spike – the evil, soulless vampire – be any different? He had more reason to hurt her than anyone else, and they’d succeeded. Why not him?

Buffy’s arm came forward in a deadly arc. The Slayer screamed with the effort, with frustration and heartache and desperation. Using every ounce of her paltry strength, putting her whole body behind it, the stake descended, plunging directly for Spike’s heart.

  
**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARDS**

**Story board 1: If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kFsuB8).**

**Story board 2 - If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kFoSzw).**

**Story board 3 - If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kFsuF1).**

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**End notes:**

Oh no! That’s not quite the welcome Spike had dreamed of, was it? Nothing can ever be easy for these two! Thank you so much for reading!! Will have more on Thursday.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	9. Fifty Bucks

**Chapter Notes:**

Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Snickers for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying to your comments. My time is getting squeezed to the breaking point right now, so I’m focusing on keeping the posting schedule. I promise to get caught up on the comments, though!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. Extra special thanks to Holi117 in this chapter, which was one I went off-track way too quickly and she had to steer me back to the slow burn lane. She is a rock star!

All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

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* * *

**Chapter 9 : Fifty Bucks**

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Buffy’s arm came forward in a deadly arc. The Slayer screamed with the effort, with frustration and heartache and utter desperation. Using every ounce of her paltry strength, putting her whole body behind it, the stake descended, plunging directly for Spike’s heart.

“Bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed as he ducked and instinctively raised an arm to block her attack.

“Buffy! No!”

Everything froze for a moment. Buffy’s forearm braced against Spike’s, the stake hovering in the air above his heart. Thoughts raced through the Slayer’s mind at warp speed as her head shot around toward the sound. ‘ _Mom!’_ Her mom was there. Wasn’t she? Was this a trick? Was she a vampire? Had he made her mother a demon? Was this some kind of sick joke to make Buffy stake her own mother? Another of the Council’s tests?

Buffy’s stomach dropped. Bile rose in her throat. Tears burned her eyes. Daggers sliced her guts into ribbons. Her head shook back and forth, more futile denial. “No, no, no…”

“Buffy, honey –” Joyce continued, reaching out and laying a warm hand on her daughter’s arm.

Warm hand. Not cold. Not dead. Warm hand.

“MOM! Oh, God… oh, Mom, I thought… I… they… he…” Buffy stammered, the stake clattering from her suddenly-lax grip as she threw herself at her mother.

“Bloody ungrateful bitch,” Spike grumbled under his breath as he bent down with a grimace and picked up the stake, tucking it into a duster pocket.

Joyce looked over her daughter’s head at the vampire, her eyes imploring him to not be angry as she held her sobbing, distraught child. Spike sighed and rolled his eyes, walking a few steps into the living room before turning back around and watching the two women.

He was an idiot. How could he have thought this would go any differently? That she’d welcome him? When had she ever welcomed him? His eyes landed on the Slayer again as she embraced her mother. Buffy looked so tiny, all of a sudden. So fragile. So shattered. Nothing like the fiery Valkyrie he’d left behind and thought of far more often than he knew he ought to. And it wasn’t just the bruises and cuts, or her limping gait, it was her heart, he thought – her light. Something other than just losing her strength or being beaten up had happened. Something dear to her had been stolen.

“Buffy, we were so worried. There was a vampire here,” Joyce began to explain as she smoothed a hand through Buffy’s hair, trying to calm her down.

“There’s still a vampire here!” the Slayer interrupted, shooting a wary look over her shoulder at Spike, suddenly aware that she’d dropped her stake. “He… he might be with them!” she accused again, stepping from her mother’s embrace but staying between the woman and the demon.

“You really think I’d hurt your mum? After everything?” Spike snapped, wishing instantly that he’d held his bloody tongue.

“Well, wouldn’t you?!”

“You’re a piece o’ work, Summers—” Spike began angrily, taking a step forward, jabbing a finger in her direction.

“No, no,” her mom assured her, giving Spike another pleading look and cutting off the vampire’s impending tirade. “Spike helped us! He… he fought him. The other one had your jacket… We thought… we… were afraid that he’d…” Joyce’s voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Buffy turned back to her mom. “Spike helped? H-he’s not with them? Are you sure? Maybe it was a trick!”

Joyce shook her head. “No, believe me, honey, he’s not with them.”

Buffy stared at her mom for several long moments, wrapping her mind around the words. She finally nodded blankly. ‘ _Not with them doesn’t mean he’s not here to kill you. Fought off the other vamp to kill you himself.’_

Her brows furrowed as she looked again at the blond standing a few feet away. She had to blink the mist of tears from her eyes to get him to come into focus. He looked different somehow. Less… less Spike-like. Worried? Tired? Ashen? The broken nose, bruises and blood on his face, and swelling around his eyes didn’t help. And he was standing more stiffly, protecting his ribs, a lot like she was. He had fought… but what was his end game? Why was he _really_ here?

Since Spike didn’t seem to be attacking at that exact moment, Buffy bought some time and asked, “The other vamp… Kralik? O-or Blair?”

“There weren’t really formal introductions,” Joyce replied.

“Few fries short of a Happy Meal… square face, smelled of an apothecary… said he’d met ya today. Had your sodding coat,” Spike offered, trying to keep his disappointment and temper pushed down. He once again began patting his pockets down for his cigarettes. Buggering hell, maybe he should just take off?

“Kralik,” Buffy whispered, a shudder running through her. There was something very, very wrong about that vampire. She’d known it in the school, and Giles had confirmed it in the hospital. Her heart clenched and she valiantly fought back a wash of fresh tears. _Giles._ The image of her Watcher showing her the vial and syringe, of the baggie full of poisoned treats, washed through her mind and cast her aching heart even deeper into the shadows.

“I know who did this… t-to me and Spike,” Buffy declared, the words out before she could think of stopping them.

“You do? Who? Is that where you’ve been? How do we fix it?” Joyce demanded, turning her daughter to face her.

Buffy lifted her shimmering gaze to meet her mother’s. “Giles… Giles did it.”

“WHAT?!” both Joyce and Spike exclaimed as one.

“Are you sure? That can’t be…” Joyce stammered.

Buffy’s chin quivered as she fought to keep her emotions in check. “I’m sure,” she whispered, her throat tight.

“How – why!?” her mother asked.

“I’ll sodding kill ‘im,” Spike growled under his breath as he began pacing in a tight circle, listening to them talk.

Buffy sniffed and swallowed, gathering herself before answering her mom. “He… it’s a… test. The Council… when a Slayer turns eighteen, they circumcise them and call it a trial. I… I don’t really know why. I was supposed to fight Kralik in some kind of Thunderdome death match. It was supposed to be my birthday disaster party, you know, just to keep the tradition going. But he escaped early, I guess, and… and he came here?” the Slayer demanded, that part suddenly sinking in fully. “He was here!? _At our house_?”

“Spike… William, that is, fought him off, but he took Spike… the dog.”

“WHAT?!” Buffy choked out, whirling around to face their guest again. “After everything, after we got Dru back for you, you just _let_ Kralik take him?!” she demanded of the vampire, her anger flaring back to life.

Spike came to an abrupt halt, whirling to face her. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ rich! Not two minutes ago you were accusing me of attacking your mum – which I clearly didn’t do!” Spike complained acerbically, stepping closer, trying to restrain his frustration. “Now I _let_ that blighter take your sodding dog? What are ya gonna accuse me of next? Being the second gunman on the grassy knoll?!”

“Not a gunman, just a vampire with very questionable motives. So, you protected my mom, but let them take my dog, instead. The Guardian of the Twilight. The only other person or… you know… warrior in this house that would be a threat to you!”

“You’re off your bird! Didn’t _let_ him take the mutt! Bloody hell! Was trying to keep ‘im from taking your mum!” Spike defended, finally pulling his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket. “That’s gratitude for ya, ain’t it? Try to help and get nothing but shite about it. Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished with you white hats.”

“You seem ambulatory. If you didn’t want him out of the way, then why didn’t you go after him? Get him back?” Buffy pressed, her swollen hands curling into fists at her sides.

Buffy held her breath, not sure she wanted to know the answer. God! Why was Spike here?! What was his angle?! Why wasn’t he attacking? Had he made some deal with Kralik to just keep her talking? What the hell was going on? Buffy was so tired of being confused. She was tired, period. And hurting, inside and out. Giles’ betrayal had bled her just as surely as a vampire’s fangs. She couldn’t deal with much more tonight. Not when it was taking all that she had just to stay upright, to not crumple in on herself and give in to the tsunami of misery and pain inside. She hardened her features, waiting for his answer. The Slayer had to figure this out before she simply collapsed.

“And leave yer mum unguarded for him to circle ‘round and snatch up?” Spike shot back, taking a cigarette from the pack and putting it between his lips.

“She was safe in the house,” the Slayer pointed out.

“Yeah, if she would’ve stayed in the sodding house. Worse than you ‘bout following directions, that one,” Spike shot back, jabbing an accusing finger past Buffy at Joyce. “Can’t do one simple thing – stay put!”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” Joyce admitted quietly from behind Buffy, embarrassment coating her words. “I… I distracted William. It’s my fault he got hurt… my fault that horrible Kralik-person took Spike.”

Spike gave the woman an appreciative look for backing him up, for admitting her part in the fiasco. “Well, if I’m honest, there’s plenty ‘o ways to get humans outta their houses,” he allowed. “Would’ve taken nothing more than a bottle o’ whiskey, an old shirt, and a lighter to get her out,” the vampire pointed out, opening his Zippo and flicking it to life. “Hard to stay in a house that’s been set alight with a Molotov cocktail,” he continued, touching the flame to the end of the fag and inhaling sharply. “Didn’t think you’d care much for that happening to your mum,” he added as he exhaled a plume of smoke and stuffed the pack and lighter back into his pocket. “So, excuse me for trying to do the right thing. Should’a known it wouldn’t be good enough for the Princess of Perfection.”

Buffy ground her teeth, which hurt, so she stopped. But she closed the short distance to the vampire with one faltering step and plucked the cigarette from between his lips.

“Oi!” was all he could get out before she had the front door open and had tossed the cigarette through it out onto the front walk.

“My house. My rules. I’m tired of the games. What are you doing here, Spike?” the Slayer demanded again as she turned back around and slammed the door closed in one motion. Her face contorted in pain with the action and she automatically cradled her right arm against her chest.

“You fucking called me, you stupid bint!” he bellowed at the same time Joyce admitted, “I called him.”

“You?” Buffy and Joyce both said at once, looking at each other.

Spike rolled his eyes, exhausted and exasperated, his ribs aching and his stomach beginning to twinge with hunger. Fuck this. Why was he even here? He’d leave, snatch up a townie on his way out – with any luck he could find the Watcher and drain him. Then let this stubborn, ungrateful bitch deal with this all by her-bloody-self! “Both of you called me,” he revealed. “Said something was wrong, said you needed help. Apparently, ya got it all sorted, and you don’t need me and my _questionable_ bloody motives. Can see when I’m not wanted, not good enough for you lot, so I’ll just be off,” he asserted, making to step by Buffy to get to the door. “Maybe next time you’re having a sodding breakdown, you should bloody well call Angel, hmm?”

“What?!”

Spike spun on his heel. “In fact. Where is the gigantic poof, huh? Don’t smell him anywhere. Don’t see yer soddin’ Watcher clamoring at the door wanting to help. Oh wait. That’s right. He bloody _did_ this to you!”

“How dare you –”

“What? Tell it like it is? Sorry, _Princess_ , thought you knew me by now. I don’t sugarcoat shit when I see it.”

“You’re right, Spike. I do know you! You’re an evil, soulless –”

“Yeah. I am. And you still called me! What does that tell you?”

She couldn’t deal with this. If he wasn’t going to attack her, then what was he doing here?

“I don’t have time for these games!” she spat, hardening her resolve once more as she spun on her heel, turning her back, practically daring him to reveal his true colors and make a damn move. One way or another, she needed this finished.

“You’re the one playin’ games! Calling me, begging, pleading, sounding like the sodding army of hell itself was after ya. May be evil and soulless, but at least I’m not a cold, heartless _bitch_.”

She spun back to him again, unable to stop herself, her body firing off pain signals with every tiny movement. “God! You just don’t know when to stop, do you? I _knew_ calling you was a mistake!”

“And clearly comin’ here was an even bigger mistake!”

“Why _did_ you come here? To mock me to death? Shove all my faults and stupid decisions in my face, remind me what a failure I am, what a shitty Slayer I’ve been, hoping I just lay back and offer up my neck?”

Spike growled, his cheeks sucking into tight hollows as he shook his head with irritation. “Why do ya keep asking me that? Have you gone soft in the head? You called, sounded like you needed me – needed my help. And I’m here! Got beat to shit saving your mum. Tried to save your fucking dog. Yet all you’ve done is toss it back in _my_ face!”

“And, again, I ask _why_! If not to kill me, then –”

“Because I thought we were friends!” Spike blurted out, shouting it at her as his arms flung wide.

Buffy’s heart all but stopped for the briefest moment. Her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped, trembling. “You… You came because…”

“Oh, bloody _hell_ ,” Spike grumbled dropping his arms, and his chin.

“Because we’re… friends?”

Could he be telling the truth? Was he really here just because they’d called him? To help? But that didn’t make any sense… he was the Slayer of Slayers, and here was number three, just standing here, weak and beaten, and… why hadn’t she called Angel?

“Not _just_ that,” Spike insisted, sniffing sharply and squaring his shoulders. “Got business elsewhere, ain’t I? You were… on the way… between points o’ California and… other points.” But his voice wasn’t as strong as it should have been, and he couldn’t look her in the eye. He’d been right about one thing: Buffy did know him well enough by now, and she could see through the defensive white lie for what it was.

Her conversation with Willow earlier that day replayed in her mind in a flash.

_“He’d tell me the truth, even if it was harsh… Spike, he never lied to me or… or acted like I… like I couldn’t handle reality. I just… I wanted to hear his voice once more before I died. When I was most afraid, when I thought I was gonna die, I called_ Spike _.”_

Silence settled between the vampire and the Slayer for what had to be only seconds, but felt like a lifetime. His eyes finally met hers. Buffy stared at him, watching as his expressive blue eyes implored her, still flaring with an echo of anger and… hurt?

“I just…” He sighed. “I came, alright?” His tone was softer, tinged with something she didn’t think she’d ever heard in his voice before.

She felt something crack inside her chest and suddenly, there was nothing else she could do but believe his words. He’d fought Kralik when he didn’t have to. He’d risked his own safety to protect her mom.

He’d actually come to help her?

“You… you came to help me?” she stammered her thought aloud.

Spike rolled his whole head to the ceiling in exasperation. “What I’ve been sayin’, innit?”

Buffy nodded slowly, biting down on her lower lip in thought. “So-so… a truce, then?” she stammered tentatively, fighting to keep her composure, to not let this revelation crumble her resolve. She had to be strong. He was telling the truth, she knew it somehow, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn on her in the end. Everyone always did. She couldn’t let that happen again. _Reckless._

“If you still want it,” he replied guardedly, looking back at her and shoving his hands into his duster pockets.

“Th-then we’d be even. Because I helped you before, with Dru…”

Spike grimaced at the sound of his sire’s name on the Slayer’s tongue. The emotional wounds still too raw and vibrant inside him. “Right,” he managed to get out. “Even. Tit for tat, or whatever.”

“Okay, then.”

Meeting her shimmering gaze, Spike felt as if his heart was in his throat. God, she looked so vulnerable. Not like his Slayer at all. Sod it all, he wanted to reach out and wipe the errant tear from her cheek. To scoop her up and take her somewhere safe, away from the fucking Council and this sodding Hellmouth – someplace where nothing could hurt her again. But even now, as downtrodden as she was, she was no damsel. _‘Probably beat your arse for just thinkin’ about saving her.’_ That thought made his lips curve at the corners. His Slayer was a force of nature. Even now he could feel her backbone turning to steel, her stubborn resolve hardening, her infuriating, overbearing, autocratic disposition stirring back to brilliant life.

As their gazes met again, it was all Buffy could do not to reach out and touch him. Something behind those blue eyes was broken… calling to her to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. To help him, even as he was here, declaring he’d come to help her. She wanted to thank him for coming. Thank him for saving her mom. Thank him for the postcards that had kept her going all these weeks. She longed to find comfort in him. Comfort that she knew was wrong, was reckless, but was burning inside her all the same.

Badness. That way lay nothing but badness. She couldn’t cater to the naïve girl inside, the one that wanted to fall into his arms, to take shelter in his strength, if only for a little while before sending him back to his destiny, to Drusilla. That girl was reckless and disappointing. She couldn’t be that girl anymore. The words she wished she could say caught in her throat and died there. Her hands, which yearned to reach out and touch him, remained clenched at her sides.

Buffy took a deep breath and closed her eyes for just a moment. As she opened them again, she let all the air out, straightening her spine and slamming down her emotions into a dark little box.

“A truce then,” Spike repeated, shifting uncomfortably as he cleared his throat and took a small step back, sensing the change within her. Girl was like a pinball machine inside.

“Right. A truce. A temporary thing until you go on to your… uh, other business…”

“Right. ‘Course…” He cleared his throat again, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, to ease her simmering distress. But he knew it wouldn’t be welcome. It would never be welcomed, and that was how it was supposed to be. He’d done enough damage just showing up here.

“No killing of anyone, including Giles,” Buffy clarified. “What’s been me and Giles is for me to deal with.”

Spike rolled his eyes. Heard that, had she? “Fine.”

Silence fell over them, uncomfortable and thick. Buffy cast around for something to say to break the oppressive tension, finally coming up with, “Just so you know, I’m counting this as you breaking your word again by coming back.”

“That’s not bloody fair. Thought we’d covered this. _You_ sodding called _me_!” he argued. Bloody hell! Not just a pinball machine, but one having a fuckin’ grand mal seizure.

“I didn’t ask you to _come_ , I asked you to _call back_ ,” she pointed out.

“That’s splitting hairs a mite thin,” he contended. “Anyway, did call you – you never called me back.”

“You did not.”

“Did so – left a message on your blasted machine.”

“You sooo didn’t!”

“Did… left two messages, in point of fact.”

“You are such a liar!”

“Am I, then? When have I ever lied to you, Slayer?” Spike arched his scarred brow at her, tucking his thumbs over his belt buckle. He rolled up onto his toes then back on his heels, waiting for her apology.

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. Stupid vampire. Only one in the whole world who didn’t lie… or not well enough to make it worthwhile, anyway. Wasn’t that one of the reason’s she’d called him? Because he’d tell her the truth, no matter what? God, this was so confusing! Spike was so damn confusing!

“I guess we need to get a new machine,” she muttered sourly.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. Was that an apology?” he taunted, lifting a hand to his ear as if to hear better.

“Don’t push your luck,” Buffy ground out, her eyes narrowing in challenge.

Spike grinned in victory, happy with even that small admission. “So, got that settled. Now I reckon you need me to get Cujo,” he theorized as he began looking around the living room. “Just point me to the weapons, an’ I’ll—”

“No,” the Slayer said tightly, her voice steady, urging him to look back at her. “I need you to keep my mom safe. I’ll get Spike.”

“Buffy, no!” Joyce cried, coming closer to the blonde pair. They both twisted toward her, each suddenly realizing she’d been privy to their heated, awkward exchange. “You can’t.”

Spike ignored the shiver of embarrassment he felt surge through his chest. What did he care anyway? He hadn’t said anything that needed hiding. This was business. A truce transaction. Well, he had just called her daughter a heartless bitch. He winced inwardly, but kept his outward composure in place.

“Gotta go along with mum on this one, pet. Barely staying upright, you are,” Spike agreed. “I’ll go get the flea bag, bring him back safe and sound,” he assured her with a sigh, which sent more daggers through his chest. He hid the pain that washed over his face by turning to once again look for weapons.

“One: Not your ‘pet’. Two: I said ‘ _no_ ,’” Buffy ground out.

Spike’s brows shot up. Back to that, then, eh? Not his pet. Didn’t mind him calling her ‘pet’ when he was opening her eyes ‘bout Angel’s sudden affinity for Slayers after the gypsy’s curse. Or when he was sharing his onion rings with her and her sodding dog. Or when he let her pick the radio station. Or when he kept Dru from attacking her while her back was turned. Or when she’d called him ‘friend’.

Buffy ignored the silent gesture and kept talking, “It’s not for you to do. They want a test? A trial? They want me to prove that I’m the Slayer… fine, then that’s what they’ll get… that’s what I’ll do. Show them I’m still the Slayer.”

“You can barely move,” Spike pointed out. “Could knock you over with a sodding feather, if I’d had a mind to. Still might, truce or no,” he threatened.

“Yeah, what about you, tough guy?” she countered, reaching a hand out and poking him in the ribs, then tweaking his nose, which had gotten smashed again in the latest melee.

“Bloody hell!” he objected, flinching back. “Still better ‘an you. You’re beat to fucking death.”

“I’m not dead yet,” she asserted, turning for the stairs. This was better. This Buffy knew. This didn’t lead to badness. To recklessness or disappointment. Arguing and bickering. Calling truces. This was better than staring into the blue ocean of his gaze, being swept up in the current and sinking into their bottomless depths.

Spike rolled his eyes to the ceiling in renewed exasperation, his hands going to his hips. Joyce touched his shoulder and, when he looked back at her, her gaze was pleading. She motioned with her head for him to follow her daughter, her intention clear: talk the girl out of this plan.

“I’m the Slayer,” Buffy continued as she began hobbling slowly up the stairs.

A whole silent conversation went on behind her between Joyce and Spike with hand gestures and facial expressions.

_‘Talk her out of it!’_

_‘How the bloody hell am I supposed t’ do that?’_

_‘I don’t know, think of something!’_

_‘Brilliant! You’re the mum – you think of something!’_

_‘She’ll listen to you!’_

_‘Clearly not! Did ya not just hear that entire argument?’_

_‘Spike, please! You’ve got to make her listen!’_

_‘There is no sodding universe where that will happen!’_

Meanwhile, Buffy kept talking, “If this is what I have to do to prove it, then, fine.”

Joyce pushed him toward the stairs, urging him to follow the girl. Spike sighed and rolled his eyes, looking at the slowly retreating Slayer as she limped away.

“I’ll show them just how a circumcised Slayer fights… and wins,” Buffy finished, leaning on the banister as she stepped up with one foot, paused, then brought other foot up to meet it, one stair at a time.

Spike grimaced. “Do wish you’d stop using that word.”

“What, ‘Slayer’?” she asked.

“No, the other one.”

“Circum—”

“Bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed, cutting her off, giving Joyce a dirty look as he followed Buffy up the stairs. “Not sure that’s the proper word – you sure you know what that means?”

Buffy shrugged, which she immediately regretted as fires reignited in her shoulder, but she kept walking. “Cutting off something that’s a natural part of you?” she guessed. “And, based on your reaction, something that you’d rather not have cut off.”

“Right, then… guess you do know what it means. Still don’t think this is a brilliant plan.”

“Well, your track record with plans is less than stellar, so I’m taking that as a ringing endorsement of mine.”

“Fuck’s sake, woman – if you’re lookin’ to off yourself, be happy to handle that for ya,” he offered as he followed her into her bedroom. “Call off the truce and I’ll drain ya dry. Promise to make it good for you.”

“Yeah, right. Thought I’d made my feelings about letting you bite me perfectly clear last time. No means no.”

“A bird can change her mind. Might as well let me have it rather than the Council’s rabid lapdog,” Spike suggested, slipping back into the old routine with her. This was better. This Spike knew. Arguing and bickering. Calling truces. This kept those ridiculous thoughts about protecting the Slayer, about holding her in his arms, down beneath his cocky veneer, where they belonged. This wouldn’t lead to rejection. He didn’t think he could take another cold dismissal, even from a friend… or enemy, depending on which way the pinball machine tilted.

“I’m not letting anyone have it,” Buffy assured him, stopping near the bed and turning around to face him. “Slayer blood stays inside Slayer—not for vampire consumption.”

“Wouldn’t count on that, condition you’re in,” Spike countered. “If you go out t’ get Cujo alone, chances are good—”

“Wow! Thanks for the vote of confidence!”

“Didn’t know you wanted a sodding cheerleader; left my pom-poms in the car. Trying to keep your bitchy ass alive, here, Slayer.”

“I’ve beaten the odds before, I’ll do it again,” she asserted with a pout.

Spike spun away from her, flinging his arms out in exasperation and regretting it immediately as knives twisted in his ribs. “You beat the odds at full strength! Not drugged by your sodding Watcher!” He turned back and strode up to her, getting in her face. “Hit me!”

“I’m not going to hit—”

He pushed her shoulder, making her stumble back. “HIT ME!” he insisted, shoving her again.

“Stop it!” Buffy gasped, her shoulder exploding in fire. She clutched her arm to her chest, trying to douse the flames that shot down her arm and up her neck.

A stab of guilt twisted Spike’s belly. He hated seeing her like this – weak and vulnerable – but he had to make his point. “Make me,” he growled back, knocking her back another step.

“Damn it!” she swore, lifting her good, left arm and throwing a jab at his jaw.

Spike leaned to the side almost leisurely, though he winced as his ribs creaked and ground together with the motion, and her fist whiffed by harmlessly. He stood back straight and arched a brow at her. “You were sayin’?”

“You’re an ass!”

“Yeah, well, if that’s what it takes to keep you from offing yourself.”

“I’m not offing myself! I’m not… I just… I have to do this!”

“You bloody well don’t have to do it alone!”

“I DO!” Buffy screamed, her voice breaking with the effort, her shoulder burning.

Spike stood in angry defiance, his hands on his hips, glaring at her. “The sodding drugs have rotted your fucking brain!” he asserted, jabbing one finger at her chest. “You’re acting like a stubborn little bint!” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what that means, but if a ‘bint’ is someone who needs to redeem herself, then you’re right! That’s me! Buffy the Stupid. Buffy the Reckless. Buffy the Disappointing. Buffy the horrible Slayer and even worse daughter. Buffy the bint who trusts vampires, who falls in love with… with one and is… is frenemies with another. Buffy, who lets everyone down, whose own father won’t even… won’t… whose Watcher…” She stumbled over the final words until her voice trailed off. The tears she’d thought she’d defeated returned, burning her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Her chin quivered with the effort to hold herself together, to keep from unraveling completely.

Spike’s face was contorted in confusion and disbelief, his eyes searching hers, trying to suss this out. “What the hell are you on about?”

Buffy blinked, waving a hand in dismissal and turned away from him. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Oh, ho. No… you started it, you can sodding finish it.”

“Let it go, Spike,” she muttered, reaching down to pull a box of weapons out from beneath the bed.

With a stifled grunt of pain, Spike beat her to it, sliding it out and lifting it up onto the bed, but then he turned to face her, blocking her access to them. “Let’s have it, then.”

“Thought you’d never ask, but all the stakes are behind you.”

Spike arched a brow at her.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

Spike didn’t budge.

She sighed and shook her head, rubbing her exhausted eyes and aching head. “I have to do this, Spike. I have to dust this Kralik, get Spike back by myself. I have to try and… and just be a good Slayer. To prove to… to myself that I’m… I’m not as horrible as everyone thinks I am.” She finally looked up at him. “It has to just be me, can’t you see? Otherwise, I’ll never be anything but the stupid Slayer who slept with… who set Angelus free. I’ll never be anything but reckless and disappointing. I can’t be that. I just... I can’t.”

Spike stared at her in astonishment for several long moments, un-moving, un-breathing. He didn’t even blink. Finally, Buffy said, “I’m finished. You can tell by the lack of words coming from my mouth. Can I get my weapons now?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, you bloody well can’t. Not ‘til I have my say.”

Buffy sighed and crossed her arms, which pulled at her shoulder, but she refused to change positions on the grounds of general stubbornness. “This should be good. Will there be more references to ‘bints’ in there?”

“Likely,” Spike grumbled as he ran a hand back through his disheveled curls and began to pace back and forth between her and the bed. Finally, after about three circuits, he stopped and glared at her. “That’s all bollocks – everything you said, utter drivel.”

“Okay, good talk. Can I please have my weapons?”

“Not done! You are so bloody wrong it’s painful!”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Do tell.”

“Plan to!” he shot back, beginning his pacing again. “You’re the best Slayer I’ve ever met, Summers. Including the ones that got away. Resourceful, tricky, cunning, bloody devious, you are. Not some trained seal like that other one… what was her name?” He stopped and looked at her again, clearly trying to remember, holding a hand up, urging her to fill in the blank. “The island bird that Dru offed,” he prompted. “Kendall? Kesha?”

“Is there a point here?” she interrupted curtly.

“Yeah, there’s a sodding point. Dunno where you got the idea that you’re a bad Slayer or any of that other rubbish you were spouting, but it’s just that – rubbish! You’re a force o’ nature, a fireball, a sodding tsunami mowing down every nasty thing in your path.”

“Except you,” she pointed out. “So far…” she warned.

“Yeah, well, no such thing as a perfect storm,” Spike sniffed, squaring his shoulders. “Might’a missed one particularly talented bloke, but ya sent sodding Angelus straight t’ hell,” he reminded her.

“After making a truce with an evil, soulless vampire.”

“Who kept his word and bloody well helped!” he pointed out.

“Except when—” she began, but he cut her off.

“And let’s not forget ole bat face, Master of the Aurelian line...”

“He killed me! I literally died.”

“Well, yeah, but you bounced back nicely and killed him better!”

“Thanks to Xander.”

“Thanks to being smart enough to have a team around you. Another thing that sets you apart from the huddled masses o’ Slayers before you,” he insisted. “Which is my sodding point! You need to be smart ‘bout this now! Don’t need to do it alone.”

“You’re not listening to me, Spike!” Buffy insisted. “This is the one thing I absolutely _have_ to do alone.” 

“Because the bleedin’ Council says so?”

“No, because _I_ say so,” Buffy countered. “Okay, apart from the whole disappointment thing… there’s another reason. I don’t know if you can understand this, but… it’s like… like they’re trying to turn me into something I’m not. Into the savee instead of the saver. If I let you fight my battle for me, then… then they win. I’m the damsel. I’m the… victim.” Buffy stood up straighter, squaring her shoulders, her gaze not wavering from his. “I can’t let that happen. I can’t let the bastards win, Spike. Even if I get my strength back, if I don’t do this, I’ll… I’ll never be me again. I’ll never be Buffy, the Vampire Slayer again.”

Spike sighed and dropped his chin to his chest, his eyes to the floor between them. He could understand that, unfortunately. And if there was one thing he couldn’t bear the thought of, it was Buffy without her fire, without her light, without her… effulgence. ‘ _Bloody fucking hell!’_

He looked back up at her, his face set in grim determination. “Right, maybe I can’t stop ya from going. I get why you need this, Buffy, but… bloody hell, Slayer! If you go in there all doom and gloom, thinking you’re some run-o-the-mill Slayer full of misery and guilt, you’ll end up dead! You’re fucking magnificent, woman! Glorious! Not a demon alive can hold a candle to you when you put your mind to something. Not even me. You’re dousing your own fire, pe— errr… Slayer. That light inside sets you apart, makes you so sodding infuriating I wanna to rip my own head off! That brilliance, that glow, it’s what makes you… _you_. Smarter, craftier, sneakier, stronger than any woman – _anyone_ – I’ve ever met.”

Buffy swallowed, her chin once again quivering with the effort of holding back her emotions. What was he talking about? Magnificent? Glorious? Smart? Had he hit his head on something in the last five minutes?

“Not any of those things. Certainly not strong…” she reminded him in a hoarse whisper, pulling her fist back and hitting him on the shoulder. It sent shockwaves of pain up her arm, but didn’t even make him wince. A gnat attacking a mastodon.

“All those things and more,” he assured her. “And not talking about that kind of strong, pet,” Spike replied gently, his eyes soft, his expression earnest. He reached a single hand out toward her chest. When she didn’t flinch back, he touched a finger down atop her thudding heart. “Strong here. Comes from inside. It’s how you try. How you fight. How you care so much about all those bloody Happy Meals, about this whole ungrateful world. How, right now, if your bastard of a Watcher called needing help, you’d go – you’d help his sorry arse. It’s who you are, Buffy. It’s how you burn with a flame so sodding bright no nasty thing could ever touch it.”

Buffy felt that blaze ignite in her breast, spreading out from Spike’s fingertip in a crackling webwork of confidence and conviction. They stood there for some time, their eyes locked, neither moving nor speaking, as it slowly suffused her whole being with that brilliant flame.

“Don’t be afraid to touch that flame, embrace it, use it. Never forget who you are: Buffy, the Bloody Brilliant Vampire Slayer. The best Slayer in sodding history. You never stop fighting. Never give up. Believe in yourself, Buffy.” Spike let his hand fall, his finger stilling thrumming with her brilliance, tingling with her warmth. He dropped his eyes, unable to hold her burning green gaze another moment, and whispered, “God knows, I do.”

Buffy swallowed, more hot tears streaming down her face. “Y-you… do?”

Spike glanced up at her through his lashes, then back down, rubbing a hand on the nape of his neck diffidently. What the bloody fuck was he doing, rolling over and showing her his soft underbelly. Dangerous, is what it was. Good way to get sliced open, gutted.

He sniffed and squared his shoulders with a shrug, finally lifting his gaze back to hers as he tucked is thumbs into his jean pockets. “Need to believe, don’t I? Got fifty bucks ridin’ on ya.”

A slow smile curved Buffy’s lips as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Fifty bucks, huh?”

Spike shrugged one shoulder and turned around to begin looking through the weapons in the box on the bed.

“So, you have a vested interest in the outcome,” she continued, grabbing a tote bag and placing it next to the box on the bed.

“Could say that. Be right pissed if ya got yourself killed,” he agreed, not looking at her.

“Cos you’d lose something you… care about. Fifty bucks,” she clarified.

Spike shrugged again, wincing with the motion, as he handed her a crossbow to put in the bag. “’Xactly. Hard earned, that dosh was. Don’t need t’ just be tossing it away.”

Buffy nodded and selected a couple of stakes and a bottle of holy water. “Well, I’ll do my best to keep you from losing anything you care about… like all that money,” she assured him.

“See that you do, Slayer.”

  
**** X-X-X-X-X ****

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find[it at this link](https://flic.kr/p/2kGXXEp).**

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**End notes:**

Uh-oh! How’s Buffy gonna get doggie-Spike back as injured as she is? If vampire-Spike follows her and helps her against her wishes, will Buffy ever forgive him? What about Joyce? Vamp-Spike can’t leave her alone either -- if something happens to her, Buffy for sure would never forgive him. More on Saturday. Same bat time, same bat station. 

**** X-X-X-X-X ****


	10. Winners Can't be Choosers

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**Chapter Notes:**

Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Everlasting Gobstoppers for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying to your comments. My time is getting squeezed to the breaking point right now, so I’m focusing on keeping the posting schedule. I promise to get caught up on the comments, though!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

Some people have asked a couple of things about Kralik, like how old he is. We don’t know in canon how old he actually is, only that the Council had him in custody for six years (so, what, they’d been saving him just for Buffy?). My headcanon is that he was turned sometime in the early 1900s, so he’s not quite as old as Spike, but still pretty old. Some people also wondered if they had ‘criminally insane’ findings back then, and the answer is yes, though they didn’t exactly call it that.

"Complete madness" was first established as a defense to criminal charges by the common-law courts in late-thirteenth-century England. By the eighteenth century, the complete madness definition had evolved into the "wild beast" test. Under that test, the insanity defense was available to a person who was "totally deprived of his understanding and memory so as not to know what he [was] doing, no more than an infant, a brute, or a wild beast. By 1840, most jurisdictions had refined the wild beast test to ‘cognitive insanity’ and supplemented that with ‘irresistible impulse insanity’.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Winners Can’t be Choosers**

* * *

Buffy pulled up in front of the boarding house on Prescott and cut the engine of her mom’s Jeep. The whole world seemed to have gone silent as the rumble of the engine died, as if she were the only person alive. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the decrepit, spooky old place, wasps buzzing painfully in her stomach, dread slithering coldly down her spine. She was exhausted. She was injured. She was weakened. She really didn’t want to go in there.

She had to go in there. _The Slayer_ had to go in there.

Buffy took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves and got out of the Jeep. ‘ _No sense being stealthy_ ,’ she thought, _‘They know I’m coming.’_ It was clearly a trap. And she was walking right into it. She just needed to do her best to not get snagged in it.

“Simple,” Buffy muttered to herself walking to the back of the Cherokee. She opened the rear hatch and reached in to get the tote-bag of weapons she and Spike had assembled. Her first attempt to lift it blistered pain through her right shoulder, forcing her to drop it. She rubbed her shoulder a few moments, looking around worriedly in case Kralik came out here for her, but nothing stirred on the dark, lonely street.

“Maybe I should’ve let Spike come as a pack mule,” she mused, turning around and slipping the strap onto her left shoulder. “He’s got the temperament… stubborn, pig-headed, obstinate, annoying…” she continued, lifting the bag with a small groan of effort. The Slayer wobbled a moment, off-balance from the extra weight, but then steadied.

Her mind got stuck momentarily on Spike. He was here in Sunnydale. At her house. He’d come – and not to kill her. He’d answered her ranting, rambling, crazed call by getting in his car and showing up on her doorstep _to help_. He’d come as a _friend_. And he… he believed in her. The wasps in her stomach turned to drunken, giddy butterflies for a moment as her hopeful, naïve heart pushed past her defenses. He was worried about losing something he cared about tonight… and it wasn’t fifty dollars. Buffy rolled her eyes at his nonsensical fabrication – which was different than a lie because it was so transparent a blind mouse could see through it. The memory of it made Buffy flush with delight; the pretense about the bet bringing a smile to her lips.

She shook her head, willing those butterflies and traitorous thoughts away. Badness. Nothing but badness could come from that. Buffy couldn’t be that silly, stupid girl anymore. This night was a turning point in her life. No more being a disappointment to people around her, no more letting everyone down, no more recklessness. Though just who exactly was left for her to disappoint? Not Giles. Not her dad.

Her mom. Her dog. And herself. That was it. Okay, Willow and Xander. But that was definitely it.

_‘And Spike?’_ some part of her provided, unbidden. Suddenly, the image of her frenemy standing before her, his head ducked, looking up at her bashfully through his lashes, telling her that he believed in her, flashed in her mind.

The Slayer clenched her jaw, forcing thoughts of the vampire away again. Her mom, her dog, her friends, and herself. That was it.

Buffy let out a long breath, steeling her nerve. To keep the disappointment factor low, she just needed to live through the next hour, kill one insane vampire and another less insane one, and rescue her dog. All without her Slayer strength.

“Sure. No problem at all,’” Buffy mumbled as she reached up to pull the hatch closed. She struggled with it a few moments, finally having to use her entire body weight to get it to come down, then lean against it to get it to latch. She was already out of breath as she started across the street to the boarding house where Giles said Kralik was supposed to be.

As the Slayer walked up the cracked, overgrown walkway to the old place, the butterflies morphed back into wasps, her fear ratcheting up. She pulled a stake out of one of her pockets and held it at the ready, focusing on her breathing, on her mission. Spike – healer of her heart. He needed her, and she would be damned if she’d let him down.

With the determination of a Slayer, if not the strength, she opened the door, the hinges squeaking helpfully to announce her arrival to the world. She stopped and held her breath, waiting, eyes darting around warily, body tensed for an attack. After a few moments, when nothing happened, she stepped in cautiously, but stopped just inside the door, not letting it fall closed behind her.

Within the house, nothing moved. Nothing jumped out at her. No net fell on her head. Switching the stake to her left hand, she reached for a light switch and flipped it a few times. The room remained bathed in deep shadows.

“Stupid Council, too cheap to replace the lightbulbs,” she grumbled. She could see the power was on. There was an old, crusted wall lamp giving off a dull glow on the other side of the room, but it wasn’t enough for anyone other than vampires to see by. Buffy slipped her hand into her bag, keeping her eyes scanning the area, and pulled out a flashlight. She shone it around the room, but still didn’t see anything. No vampires. No dog.

She swallowed and stepped further into the house, using the stake she had out to prop the door open behind her, lest she be locked in.

With her heart thudding in her ears like a herd of wild wildebeests – was that redundant? – she set the weapons’ bag down and pulled out a crossbow. Buffy propped the flashlight up so she could see, and got the bolt nocked in the weapon with an effort that had daggers jabbing into her shoulder again. She stood perfectly still then, trying to get the pain to subside and just concentrated on her breathing. As she did so, she heard her dog’s unmistakable whine of distress – it sounded like it was coming from a nearby doorway.

Buffy’s heart lurched achingly in her chest. Spike! He was alive! But he was clearly suffering. Hearing her sweet, furry friend’s anguished cries was almost too much. She wanted to run to him, to barrel ahead, damn the consequences. But she held herself back with the silent chant of _, ‘Trap, trap, trap.’_

Tense as a tightly wound drum, with the crossbow in one hand and her flashlight in the other, the Slayer tip-toed toward the door. She wished to all that was holy that her heart wasn’t beating so loudly and that her feet weren’t so heavy on the frayed, faded carpet. She was sure every vampire within ten miles could hear her as she made her way to the open doorway. Shining her light through it, she saw there were stairs going down – the basement. Spike was in the basement.

She looked around, checking behind her once more, and started down the creaking stairs, one slow step at a time. Buffy kept checking behind her, waiting for the imminent attack. With each step she paused and swept her light, and the crossbow, back and then forward again. It was a trap, after all, and this seemed to be the most likely place to catch her, to hem her in, on these stairs. Her lungs constricted in her chest, her swollen throat closed up, making breathing a strain. Her knees felt like jelly, and her heart skittered like a frightened rabbit as she made her way down the creepy stairs into the even creepier basement. It smelled of mold and mildew and years of decay – a tomb.

_‘My tomb? No, no … not my tomb. Not Spike’s and not mine,’_ she assured herself as she reached a landing where the stairs turned. Her light fell on a mound of copper and black fur in the middle of the floor. Her dog lifted his head, his brown eyes confused and pleading as they met hers. His muzzle had been wrapped with duct tape, as had all his feet, all bound together.

“Spike!” She couldn’t stop the panicked exclamation from exploding from her lips. Buffy started to hurry forward, but checked herself, once again shining her trembling light around the room along with her weapon. There was a plethora of junk piled around, including water-stained boxes and disintegrating garbage bags piled, in places, all the way to the ceiling. A thick layer of dust coated everything, like icing on a cake. Her light bobbed around the dark room drunkenly, revealing a set of old wingback chairs, the upholstery once having been rich silken stripes of green and gold, but which were now faded and worn. Nearby, turned on its back, was a sofa with a picture of a grist mill done in browns and ochres repeated in a dizzying pattern across its tattered cushions. There was a mismatched assortment of dining chairs and lamps – some with shabby shades, others bare – and a wooden tea trolley piled high with teetering cups and bowls. Nightstands with old, stained mattresses leaned haphazardly against them filled almost an entire corner. Anything could be lurking in the dark recesses her light couldn’t touch.

Buffy tried to use her Slayer senses to feel if there were any vampires nearby. She’d felt Spike’s – the vampire’s – earlier, at home. But she hadn’t been tingling from head to toe with terror then, and he’d been right next to her.

_‘Be right pissed if ya got yourself killed,’_ the blond vampire’s voice rang in her mind. _‘Me too,’_ she agreed silently, taking a few more cautious steps down until her feet hit the dirty floor.

Apart from Spike’s off-and-on whines and whimpers of distress, she couldn’t hear or see anything else in the room – alive or dead, or you know, undead. With one last sweep of her light, Buffy bolted the last few feet to her dog’s side, falling to her knees next to him. She dropped the flashlight on the floor, its beam wavering and jerking over the detritus stacked around them. Keeping the crossbow in her right hand, she dug in her pocket for the knife Spike had suggested she bring for just such a scenario.

_“Likely have the mutt tied up… assuming he’s still—” Spike had stopped talking at her sharp look and cleared his throat. “Need a blade, good and sharp, have it in your pocket or wherever you keep such adornments,” he’d advised._

Spike began to growl, the sound nearly swallowed by the duct tape around his muzzle, and struggle fruitlessly against his bonds.

“It’s okay, baby, I’m here… gonna be okay,” Buffy soothed the dog, her shaking fingers struggling to get the blade of the small, but very sharp, pocketknife open while holding the crossbow.

“BOO!”

Buffy nearly jumped out of her sweat-soaked shirt. The knife that she’d just gotten open tumbled to the floor as she swung around toward the sound. The too familiar, and much too close, face of Zachary Kralik filled her entire field of vision. She pulled the trigger on the bow, sending the bolt flying off into the darkness, well wide of its mark.

A second later, her vision shattered, a bright light flashing in her wide, panicked eyes, blinding her. A sharp crack sounded around her ears, followed by the feel of an explosion through her skull, and then abruptly, she didn’t hear or see or feel anything else.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike paced.

Joyce wrung her hands.

Spike reached for his cigarettes.

Joyce eyed the whiskey decanter.

Spike pulled just the lighter out and began to flick the lid open and closed.

Joyce curled her hands into fists and took a step toward the door.

“Oi! Where ya think you’re goin’?” Spike demanded, moving between her and the locked front door.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing!” she retorted, making to step past him. “Buffy needs me. I can’t let her—”

“Can and will,” Spike ordered, sliding over easily to block her path. “Not a fan o’ waiting, myself… never been one of my talents, but the Slayer said to wait.”

“And you’re just gonna do what she says?” the woman cried. “What kind of vampire are you?”

Spike arched a brow at her. “One who’d prefer to not have a pissed-off Slayer after me cos I let her mum get herself killed.”

Tears welled in Joyce’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Please… please, William… I have to help her. _She’s my daughter_.”

A dagger twisted in his heart at her plaintive use of his given name; it reminded him too much of his own mother. “She’s the Slayer,” Spike reminded her, his voice softening, her tears burning his heart as sure as if they were holy water. “It’s something she has to do. Not saying I don’t agree with ya, just saying… I understand her reasons.”

“B-But, what if she needs help? I heard what you said to her – she’s stronger with allies. She needs allies now more than ever!” the distraught woman argued.

Spike pursed his lips, his own eyes darting toward the door. What would he do with the Slayer’s mum if he went after Buffy? Leaving her here wasn’t a good option. Taking her with him seemed even less brilliant. Maybe he could drop her somewhere... one of Buffy’s mate’s houses?

He turned back to face the woman. “You know where this boarding house is the Slayer was on about?”

Joyce nodded eagerly. “It’s just north of Union on Prescott—” she began, but was cut off by a voice from outside.

“Mother, may I die today?”

They both turned toward the big picture window and looked out. Kralik was coming up the front walk. Spike was glad to see the bastard had a limp, though he didn’t look nearly as bruised and beaten as Spike felt. _‘Fed recently… and well,’_ Spike surmised, frowning. Spike had been too nervous and upset after Buffy left to even think of warming up a mug or two of pig’s blood. That had been stupid, he realized now. Even though he could tell Kralik wasn’t as old as he was, the wanker was better fed, was healing faster, and was most likely better rested at the moment. He was also fucking crazy – which made him unpredictable. All that put Spike at a definite disadvantage to the psychotic vamp. He’d need to be smart about this – not let his temper get the better of him. Right. Like that ever sodding worked.

With each step up the walk, Kralik laid something down on the ground next to his foot. Cards? Papers? Spike narrowed his eyes and pulled the sheer curtain back to see more clearly.

“Polaroids,” Spike muttered, his brows furrowed, his stomach tightening into burning knots. If Kralik was here, then where was Buffy? _‘Don’t you dare die on me, Slayer. Don’t you fucking dare!’_

“What? What does that mean? Are we too late? Is she… Oh, God. Buffy! Please no… no, no, no…” Joyce chanted, shaking her head, her eyes unfocused, her entire body beginning to tremble.

“Joyce! Don’t fall apart on me now,” Spike ordered, doing his best to not fall apart himself. He shook her by the shoulders just hard enough to snap her out of it, using the motion to disburse the horrible images that had started flashing in his own mind of a broken girl with dead green eyes staring up at him accusingly.

“Gonna see what it is, yeah? What it means. Stay with me!”

She nodded blankly, more tears streaming from her eyes. Spike clenched his jaw and strode for the door, unlocking the deadbolt and swinging it open. Kralik had made it to the bottom of the porch steps. He held up one of the instant pictures for Spike to see. Buffy and Cujo. Tied up. Laying on a dirty floor. Buffy had blood staining her blonde hair on one side of her head and running down into her face.

Behind Spike, Joyce gasped. Spike put an arm out, bracing it on the doorjamb to keep her from rushing outside in some crazed and futile attempt at vengeance.

“All little girls need their mommies,” Kralik declared, flinging one of the photos toward the door like a Frisbee. He took a step up the stairs and flung another photo. “What a bad mommy.” Another step, another photo. “Letting her little girl go all alone through the dark and dangerous woods to the big, bad wolf’s house. Don’t you want to see her before the wolf gobbles her _alllll_ _up_?”

Joyce picked the pictures up, crying, frantic, terrified. Spike and Buffy, both tied up… blood! There was blood! Her little girl was bleeding! She was hurt! Buffy needed her!

“She cried for her mommy. But mommy wasn’t there,” Kralik continued taunting. “So alone. So afraid.”

“Buffy!” Joyce sobbed. “No! Take me to her!”

“No!” Spike shouted, pushing Joyce back as she tried to get past him. “You stay in this fucking house. I’ll get her!” he swore, his blue eyes blazing into hers with unquestionable determination.

“Please,” Joyce begged. “Please… Buffy.”

Spike shook her again, this time a little harder than before. “Do you hear me? Stay in this house!”

Joyce nodded despondently. “Help my girl,” she pleaded.

Spike clenched his jaw and dipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the smooth wood of the stake Buffy had dropped earlier. “Stay,” he said one last time before he whirled around, drawing the stake. He dove out the open door right at the insane vampire with the photography fetish.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy woke with a groan. There was a sledgehammer pounding against her head. She tried to lift a hand to stop it, but couldn’t. She tried to roll away, to stop the pummeling of her skull, but had little luck with that either. She managed to blink her eyes open. It took several moments before she could see anything, and a couple more to realize the sledgehammer was Spike’s tail swishing against her face.

“I’m up,” she tried to say, but it came out as, “Mmmppp.”

Spike apparently understood though, because he stopped battering her.

The Slayer groaned again and tried to sit up or roll over or do anything, but the world spun toward her, then reversed course and spiraled away, so she just stopped and waited for it to make up its mind. Taking stock, she realized her hands were tied behind her back and her legs were tied together. She was on the floor with her dog. It was wet and dirty and smelled like dead fish and rotten cabbage – which was the least of her worries, but still sucked.

“Werre dey?” The Slayer asked the dog. She shook her head, tried to get her brain to make her mouth say the words right. “Where. Are. They?” she enunciated slowly, her voice barely a whisper.

Spike whined, then swatted her with his tail again. Slightly less than helpful.

Buffy looked around the dark basement, her eyes straining to see anything. The effort sent barbs of agony lancing directly into her brain. She clamped her eyes closed, wincing against the pain. When she finally opened them again, the world seemed to have given up on its carnival ride impersonation, though she still couldn’t see much. The only light was the dim bulb filtering down the steps from the floor above, barely enough to make out ominous shapes all around them. Well, if the vampires were coming, they’d come whether she could see them or not.

Gathering her nerve, Buffy took a deep breath and rolled onto her back. Brilliant agony seared through her shoulder, making her cry out. Her face contorted in pain as she lifted her legs and hips off the floor until her hands were free from their weight, putting even more stress on her shoulders.

“Arrrrrrrrggghhhhhhhfffffffuuuuuuckkkk!” she screamed as she curled into a ball, bringing her thighs up to her chest. She stretched her arms as far as they would go, slipping her bound hands beneath her butt and up over her feet, ending up with them tied in front of her, instead of behind.

Spike whined and struggled, trying to get free to help her, but he was bound up too well, and still too weak to break the duct tape.

Buffy panted with the exertion and pain, her chest heaving as she laid back on the floor to recover. “Please… tell… me… they left… the… knife,” she gasped, finally struggling to a sitting position.

Spike kicked at something with his bound feet and the open knife slid across the dirt, coming to a rest against Buffy’s leg.

“Good boy,” she croaked, picking it up, wasting no time as she began slicing through her bonds.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike missed Kralik’s heart. The stake drove into the crazy vampire’s biceps muscle and stuck there as the two growling, roaring demons landed on the walk with a bruising thud. House lights blinked on in the neighborhood and curtains moved aside. Fearful faces peeped out of windows to try and see what was happening, to see what sounded like two ferocious lions slaughtering each other.

Fists and fangs flashed in the porch light, battering flesh and cracking bone. Blows were exchanged. Blood flew. Muscle and sinew alike were ripped with fangs and claws. Curses and oaths blistered from snarling lips. The two vampires rolled over the dew-damp grass, one on top, then the other, battling with everything they had.

After what seemed an eternity to Joyce, Spike finally rolled on top and stayed there, his fists battering down on the other vampire with a furious vengeance. When he had an opening, Spike reached for the other vamp’s head, set on twisting it off, but Kralik had been ready for that, and blocked Spike with his forearms, guarding his neck. Spike growled and reached for the stake protruding from the crazy vamp’s biceps, but, again, the brunette knew what he was after and defended it by momentarily dropping the defense of his neck to throw punches up at the blond. It went on this way, Spike winning but unable to put an end to it, as Joyce fidgeted nervously in the doorway and watched helplessly.

Then she heard something odd, and she realized it was coming from the downed demon. For a moment, it didn’t register, it was so incongruous to the situation. Then she realized what it was. Kralik was laughing. Chuckling, even. It sent an icy shiver of revulsion and fear down her spine.

Something was very, very wrong with this picture. Her eyes darted around the yard, trying to untangle the incongruous situation – Spike’s furious growls and Kralik’s amused chortling combining into a blood-curdling symphony. Her hand covered her mouth in shock when she finally realized why the beaten, bloodied, crazed vampire was laughing.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy and Spike helped each other back up the creaking stairs. They were both woozy and wobbling, joints grinding, stiff muscles aching, knives dancing over their bruised and battered bodies. Her nerves were absolutely shot. Every creak of the stairs, every scurry of a mouse, every brush of her dog’s fur against her leg made the Slayer jump. She held the small knife at the ready in one hand, the heavy flashlight, which she’d found only after kicking it across the floor, in the other like a club. She’d bashed and slashed at vampires several times so far, hitting nothing but open air – ghosts, her imagination playing tricks.

At the top of the stairs she paused and listened, but didn’t hear anything. She looked down at her dog. “Anything?” she whispered to him, gripping the knife so hard the handle began to cut into her palm.

Spike began to shake his head in the negative, but stumbled and nearly fell back down the stairs, only saved when Buffy dropped the flashlight and grabbed him. The light bounced and flared as it tumbled down, banging, it seemed, on every single step. It came to a stop on the landing with a clang and went out, leaving nothing but total darkness below them.

Buffy held her breath, crouching down, waiting. She had one hand buried in her dog’s mane, not letting him tumble away. She held on to him for dear life – afraid the vampires would discover them at any moment. They were stronger together – her and Spike – she couldn’t let them get separated. In her other hand she still brandished the small knife. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing – barely. Unmoving, heart racing, eyes wide, she tried in vain to see what awaited them in the shadows. Waiting for the vampires. Waiting for pain. Waiting for death.

Spike finally got his feet back under him and stood next to her, his ears cocked up, listening and looking with her.

They stayed that way for one or two years, but nothing happened. No demons attacked. No death came for them. Buffy finally drew in a breath and stood up from her crouch, stepping forward out into the dimly lit main room where she’d entered. With one more look around, trying to see into the shadows, she dashed in a limping gait to her weapon’s bag, which the vampires had thoughtfully left for her. Her fingers closed on a stake and she yanked it out, spinning around again, willing her eyes to see the demons that had to be coming for them.

But nothing came. Nothing moved. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, the blood loud in her ears as it rushed past, her entire body quivering with the adrenaline-fueled fear. Was this some new strategy? Kill the Slayer by giving her a fear-induced heart attack?

_“POP!”_

Buffy jumped, spinning to face the sound, her eyes wide, her breath a distant memory as her throat closed over a squeak of surprise. The dim bulb in the wall sconce across the room had apparently blown out, casting the house into even deeper shadows. Spike barked a disdainful chastisement at the gutless coward of a light, but still nothing else stirred.

Buffy didn’t wait another moment, she turned for the door, ready to make a run for it, and her heart sank. The stake that had been propping it open was gone. Trapped! She twisted the handle and yanked frantically, using all her less-than-considerable might to force it open. Had to get out! Escape!

Nothing happened. The door remained steadfastly closed. Locked. Their escape barred. It didn’t even rattle in the frame as she tugged at it desperately. “No, no, no, no,” she chanted, tears of frustration pooling in her eyes.

She hurried to the window beside it, drawing back the heavy, dusty curtain only to find it bricked over. “No,” she ground out. “No, no, no!” she continued, trying the window on the other side of the door, only to find the same thing. Bricks. It really was a tomb. Her tomb. Spike’s tomb.

_‘Not the Slayer. Victim. Damsel. Trapped. Disappointment. Stupid Buffy. Reckless Buffy. Going by yourself. Could you be any more of a bint?’_

“Spike’s gonna lose his fifty bucks,” she muttered forlornly, sliding down against the door to sit on the gritty floor. She drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head onto her folded arms atop them, exhausted. Done. Finished. It was over. She’d lost. She’d be dead soon. So would Spike. Spike. He didn’t deserve this. He should be in Romania biting the heads off vampires and pissing on their dust. Not here with her in this crazy, ridiculous situation… not about to die.

God, she was so tired of crying, but she couldn’t stop the tears. Even as her dog nuzzled against her, whining softly and licking her arms, trying to get to her face, she couldn’t stop. Failure. She wouldn’t even be William the Bloody’s third Slayer… she’d just be the one who set Angelus free then knowingly walked into a trap and got herself, well, trapped. And killed. Along with her best friend. “Stupid bint,” she muttered. “As usual, Spike, you were wrong.”

_‘Like hell I was! I know Slayers, and I know you, and I’m not sodding wrong!’_

“Great, not only am I gonna die, now I have to listen to Radio-Spike argue with me in my head?”

_‘What the fuck are you doin’ sitting on that arse like a fucking damsel? Eh!? You’re a fighter! Get up!’_

Buffy shook her head against her arms. “Tired.”

_‘Sod tired! Find that fire! That brilliance, that glow! Smarter, craftier, sneakier, stronger than any woman – anyone – I’ve ever met. Find a fucking way out! Get up and fight, woman! GET YOUR ARSE UP!’_

“If I do, will you shut up?” she asked the voice in her head.

_‘Damn sure won’t if you don’t get up.’_

Buffy clamped her eyes closed and forcibly swallowed her tears, gathering her tattered wits and shattered courage. She took Spike’s words, his conviction, his belief in her, and wrapped them all around her like a cloak as she looked inside for that fire he swore was there. Buffy was afraid it was burned out, doused with her tears, with her heartache and exhaustion. But as his voice filled her head again, she found the barest spark still there, waiting in the darkness. 

_‘You’re fucking magnificent, woman! Glorious! Not a demon alive can hold a candle to you when you put your mind to something. Not even me. It’s how you try. How you fight. It’s who you are, Buffy. It’s how you burn with a flame so sodding bright no nasty thing could ever touch it.’_

Buffy took a deep breath and sniffed back her tears, lifting her head from her folded arms. She held onto that tiny spark, keeping her frenemy’s cloak of belief pulled tight around her shoulders. Spike licked the tears from her cheeks, making her wince back from the slobbery tongue, which left more dampness than it removed.

With a grunt of effort, she was back to her feet. Everything ached. A few places burned. Others throbbed. Some shot daggers into her ribs. Didn’t matter. Spark. Flame. Fight.

She hobbled forward, bumping into furniture as she headed for the light down the hall. There was no stealth. If the vampires were here, they were playing with her and they’d come when they came. If they weren’t, then they’d still come when they came. Either way, they were coming. She just didn’t know when or from what direction.

The light was shining from some kind of sitting room, she supposed they would call it. A sitting room with tools scattered all around it. Tools like an axe.

Spark. Flame. Fight.

“We’re getting the hell outta here,” the Slayer told Spike, who had stayed right at her side.

“Woof!” he rejoiced happily, bouncing off the floor with his front feet.

Buffy grinned. “Woof is fucking right.”

She grabbed the axe and hobbled back into the murk of the front room, managing to avoid most of the furniture this time. She stood in front of the door – wooden, thank goodness – and lifted the axe to her shoulder with a grunt of effort and cry of pain.

“Just need to make like Paul Bunyan and—"

There was a sound behind them – unidentifiable but not her imagination. She was sure it was real because when she whirled toward it, Spike did too. Their eyes strained to see in the dim light that spilled from the sitting room down the hall, willing the near-darkness to part and reveal its secrets. They both stood frozen there again, waiting, the axe resting against her shoulder, her swollen fingers clutching the haft desperately.

Sweat beaded on Buffy’s flushed skin and was running down her face, down her body, cold and clammy. She thought that was what terror felt like – that drop sliding down her spine like a cold blade, just looking for the perfect spot to slip in to her flesh.

Suddenly, the sound repeated and there was movement in the gloom. The vampires had come! Buffy jerked, her body spasming in fright. Spike barked, bounding forward. She tried to call to him, to urge him to not leave her, but her throat wouldn’t let the words out. She watched in horror as he vanished in the blackness, his feet loud on the floorboards for a moment, a crunching sound, and then silence.

“NO! SPIKE!” The words burst from her in a panic as Buffy lurched forward, axe gripped in her sweaty hands, following him into the gaping maw of what she knew had to be death itself.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Though Spike was now dominating the clash with Kralik, Joyce knew something was very wrong. Kralik wasn’t acting defeated at all. He was humming and chuckling as Spike pummeled him, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She realized exactly why that was in the next moment.

What could only be the other vampire Buffy had mentioned: Blair.

Before Joyce could call out a warning to Spike, the other vampire – fresh, well-fed, and uninjured – pounced. Blair grabbed Spike from behind, locking his hands on the blond’s elbows, and dragged the beaten, bloodied, and exhausted master vampire off his lunatic sire.

“No, no, no…” Joyce chanted frantically, her eyes darting around, her mind whirling. She had to do something! Had to help! Buffy’s life was at stake! _Stake_ … STAKE! Her gaze jumped to the basket of weapons by the door – stakes. Stakes killed vampires. She’d seen Buffy do it before. Not often, but… how hard could it be? Stake to the heart; vampire go ‘ _poof’_.

She reached down and grabbed one, determined to help Spike save her daughter, no matter what it took.

In the yard, Spike struggled to pull free of the fledge’s hold, but he’d spent his adrenaline-fueled energy on the square-jawed fruit loop, and did little more than jostle Blair where he stood. His strength was waning – the last days without much sleep or a proper meal catching up with him at the worst possible moment.

Kralik kept sniggering as he pushed leisurely up to his feet, making a show of brushing grass and dirt from his clothes. The insane vamp was bleeding from numerous gouges and gashes that peppered his face, neck, and arms. The thick blood trickled down his face, mingled with the mud and grass, and coated the swelling bruises from Spike’s beating with brilliant red. He wiped some from his eyes and licked it from his fingers, taking his time now, knowing that Spike was pinned by his minion. 

Spike wasn’t in much better shape. Though he was less bruised, he was leaking blood from too many bites and gouges – blood he could ill afford to lose. The blond was getting weaker with each drop that fell from his body and he once again cursed his stupidity for not feeding, even on pig’s blood, when he’d had the chance. As Spike snarled and thrashed against his captor, the crazy vampire pulled the stake out of his biceps with a devilish grin. 

“That hurt,” he said conversationally, looking up at Spike. “I told you before I’d share the little girl. Didn’t have to get greedy.” Kralik considered the stake a moment, then lifted it to his lips. He stuck out his tongue and licked the blood from it, savoring it like a child given a set of beaters covered in ooey-gooey chocolate cake mix.

“Now then,” the brunette said after he’d gotten the stake clean. “Whatever shall I do with this?” he wondered, looking back at Spike, a satisfied grin on his ugly face. He took a step forward, within arm’s reach of the blond, who was still tugging at his captor, trying to pull his arms free. “Just so you know before you have to go, here’s what’s gonna happen to that Slayer you seem so keen on keeping for yourself: I’m gonna take her dear, sweet, delicious mother to her and give them a touching reunion.

“I do love a touching reunion,” Kralik sighed dramatically. “Very Disney… all fairytales. They’re my favorite. Of course, mine have better endings. After that tearful embrace, I’m gonna let mommy watch as I drain all the bubbles from that bubbly little glass of champagne. Well… I might leave one or two, you know, so when the little girl rises, she’ll still have that same sparkle when she eats her mother’s face.” 

A grin spread over Spike’s mouth, showing his blood-coated fangs. Kralik had told him what he was _going to do_ … not what he’d _done_. “Take it you’ve not had the pleasure o’ trying to kill this particular Slayer before. Lemme give you a bit of advice, one vamp to another, eh?”

Kralik waved the stake, inviting Spike to continue.

Spike leaned forward as far as he could, catching and holding the other vamp’s gaze. His elbows were still pinned behind him by Blair, but his hands were free. He slid one hand into his duster pocket and came out with his Zippo. As he spoke, he flipped it open and spun the flint.

“Don’t count your ducks before they’ve quacked,” he advised Kralik. Then he leaned back and touched the flame to Blair’s trousers. In the same moment, using Blair as leverage, Spike lifted both legs and slammed his boots into Kralik’s chest. The surprised, stake-wielding vampire stumbled back toward the street and Blair’s hold on Spike’s elbows loosened at the same time.

Spike yanked free of Blair, who stood looking utterly perplexed by the flames consuming him. In the next moment the fledge burst into dust, which fluttered harmlessly to the grass. Spike never looked back, keeping his eyes on the threat – Kralik – who was chuckling again. If Spike _had_ looked back, he would’ve known why Kralik was laughing; he would’ve seen a frightened, determined mother swinging a stake through Blair’s dust and directly at Spike’s back.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy practically fell over her dog in the dark corner of the room. She caught herself at the last moment, somehow managing to not chop off anything vital with the axe in the process. Her eyes were finally starting to adjust to the paltry light that filtered in from down the hall, and to her immense relief she saw no vampires or other deadly threats waiting for them. What she did see made her scrunch up her face in revulsion. 

“Spike, ewwww…” she chastised as the tail of a mouse dangled lifelessly from her dog’s muzzle, its body completely engulfed in his big mouth. Despite her disdain, Spike looked supremely pleased with himself, his tail wagging victoriously.

“Put it down and stop goofing off,” Buffy ordered, her face still a mask of repulsion. Spike seemed to shrug, his feeling of accomplishment undeterred, but set the wet, lifeless mouse down on the threadbare carpet. She shuddered and began limping back for the door, using the axe like a cane, Spike at her side. _‘Get out. Get out. Have to get out.’_

Back in front of the door, she gritted her teeth and lifted the axe, swinging it back and then forward with every ounce of strength she had. It bit into the wood and stuck there. “You have got to be kidding me,” the Slayer swore, yanking on the handle and wiggling it to try and get it free.

_‘Your mum hits harder than that! Fuck’s sake, Slayer!’_ Spike’s voice taunted her. _‘Pretend it’s my head!’_

Buffy set her jaw and swung again, picturing Spike’s hard, stubborn, mulish head. An atom bomb exploded in her shoulder. She screamed. The axe sunk in again, a little deeper this time. More sweat drenched her skin, soaking through her clothes as she worked the blade out and lifted it again. Her arm went numb with the next blow and pain shot up into her skull like daggers. The old wood splintered. Her heart leapt. The dog barked his encouragement. She tugged it free again. Lifted. Shrieked. Swung. The crack widened, lengthened. Again. Again. Again. And finally, with a strength Buffy didn’t know she had, the door split in two, one side swinging free while the other remained locked with the heavy bolt.

“Yes!” Buffy shrieked, her throat raw and painful, but she didn’t care anymore. Everything was raw and painful, but they were free! She could feel the cool night air on her face. Smell the fresh scent of life outside, in direct opposition to the death within the house. Her heart leapt with joy, her spirit sensing victory – or at least survival of this round – as she and the dog squeezed out through the splintered opening and charged in a hobbled sprint from the tomb.

It didn’t take long for Buffy and Spike to get to the Jeep and scramble in. Mortal fear and icy adrenaline overpowered their injuries and exhaustion, allowing her to give Spike little more than a hard boost to help him get loaded up. She then hurried to the driver’s door, constantly looking around the dark and deserted street for the vampires, which she knew would jump out at her at any moment. Her sweaty fingers slipped on the door handle once, but then she had it open and was inside, getting all the locks closed with a reassuring ‘click’. The keys were in her trembling hand the next moment. She tried to get them into the ignition but missed. Tried again and dropped them.

“Oh my God! Blonde in a slasher movie trope much!” Buffy swore in exasperation, grabbing them up from the floorboard and finally shoving the key into the slot.

She twisted the ignition and pushed on the gas, fully expecting the motor to stay silent, to be flooded, or just start and then die – out of gas or something equally ridiculous. But neither happened. The engine turned over and purred comfortingly beneath the hood, the warning bell dinging periodically, telling her to fasten her seatbelt.

Spark. Flame. Fight.

Win.

“Thank you, Spike,” she whispered, slamming the Jeep into drive. The Cherokee squealed away from the curb, leaving the boarding house and Prescott Lane in her rearview mirror.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Spike!” Joyce exclaimed, unable to stop the momentum of her plunging stake as it met nothing but thin air where Blair had just been standing only a millisecond before.

Spike twisted at the last moment, the stake ripping through the leather duster, slamming into his flesh, and severing ligaments in his shoulder. He howled in pain, and fell to his knees, writhing as he tried to reach back and pull it out. The movement propelled his agony to a whole new level of hell, and he crumpled to his side as stars burst and danced across his vision.

“Spike!” Joyce screamed again, dropping down next to him in a state of utter terror, not sure what to do to help him. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Spike!”

“What did I tell you?” Kralik asked as he got back to his feet, supremely pleased. “Disney Movie of the Week. Am I right?”

Joyce looked up at him, her heart on the verge of bursting, her mind nothing but a black void of blinding fear, her body little more than trembling jelly, completely out of her control.

“Run. House…” Spike gasped, trying to reach up and push her into motion. “Go!”

Joyce tried to stand, to run, but her legs were as weak as overcooked noodles, quivering beneath her. She dropped back to her knees on the grass next to Spike, frozen, unable to run, unable to think. Worst of all she was unable to save her daughter. ‘ _Buffy. Oh, God… Buffy!’_

Joyce watched in icy horror as Kralik began a slow shuffle across the lawn toward them. The crazy vamp was wounded. He was bleeding. One eye was swollen nearly closed. At least one fang was gone. He was limping. But somehow, he still seemed to be winning.

Spike howled in pain as he struggled to his feet, lurching and stumbling as the stake twisted in his back, tearing muscles and tendons with each jerky movement. “Run,” he gasped again, putting himself between the woman and the vampire.

Joyce couldn’t run. She couldn’t stand. But she could crawl. And she did. With trembling, frightened movements and sobbing cries, she scurried for the house on all fours, leaving Spike standing alone.

“Wait! She’s not _your_ mother too, is she?” Kralik asked with a gleam in his one open eye.

“Not my mum,” Spike rasped, swaying where he stood, holding his right arm to his chest, trying to keep from moving it until he really, _really_ needed to.

“Oh… do you have a mother? Cos, I’d really love to meet her… and, you know… kill her.”

“A mite too late for that,” Spike informed him, widening his stance, getting his balance, trying to judge if Joyce was to the house yet. If he could get that stake out of Kralik’s hand… Bloody hell! How was he gonna do that? He couldn’t even beat the sodding Slayer right now, let alone this fruitcake. Fuck!

But he had to do _something_. He’d just started ‘his turn’; still didn’t know what that meant, where it would lead. His welcome by the Slayer hadn’t exactly been the friendly one he’d imagined; she’d tried to stake him. But, apart from that, she hadn’t kicked him out – seemed like a good sign. And she had all his postcards up around the mirror in her room. Spike hadn’t mentioned it, didn’t want to get her started on some new tirade, but he’d seen them. She’d kept them. Had to mean something, didn’t it?

He just needed to not dust, Spike reminded himself. Didn’t have to win this round. Was how he’d survived meeting and fighting as many Slayers as he had – knowing when to retreat and regroup.

“Oh well, guess I’ll just have to settle for the one, then,” the psychotic vampire sighed. “See ya in hell,” he bid Spike, raising the stake to strike.

Spike tensed, desperate, ready to do whatever he could to buy himself, and Joyce, a little more time. A chance to find out what sort of carnival ride ‘his turn’ would be. He began to chortle almost involuntarily, then to laugh maniacally. A deep, dark, sinister chuckle rolled from his battered body and bloodied lips, filling the yard with madness. He’d spent a sodding century keeping Dru safe – safe as could be, catering to her every whim – and just a few days on his own – _truly_ on his own, taking his bloody turn – he was gonna dust. It was just too sodding ironic to not be hysterical. Or maybe he was just hysterical.

Kralik hesitated, confused by Spike’s laughter, looking for some kind of trap.

Then a motor roared.

Tires squealed.

Shocks shuddered and screeched in protest as they bounced over the curb and through some low shrubs lining the walk.

There was a deafening ‘THUD!’ of impact not two feet from where Spike stood, still laughing.

Spike jerked backwards in reflex, turning at the last minute and landing on his side to keep from driving the stake in deeper. Another yowl tore from his throat, cutting off the chuckling, and a crimson sleet of agony sluiced down over his vision, momentarily blinding him.

Joyce screamed, thinking Spike had been hit, and reversed course, scrambling back to him.

Kralik bounced over the hood of the Jeep, smashed against the windshield, rolled up over the roof and crashed back down to the grass behind the furious driver.

Buffy stomped on the brakes, barely avoiding slamming into Mrs. Kowalski’s prized privet hedge, and jerked the Jeep into reverse. Sod flew as her wheels spun on the damp grass, then caught just as Kralik stumbled back to his feet. The bumper of the Jeep mowed him down at the knee, his head smacked against glass of the rear hatch, shattering it, before he was swallowed beneath the vehicle.

Buffy screeched to another halt, the headlights of the Jeep wobbling drunkenly, each shining in a different direction. Kralik was down – his legs broken, his head caved in on one side – but he wasn’t out. Not _out_ in the way he needed to be.

Buffy put the Cherokee into drive again, carefully lined up the wheels, and drove forward. She could feel the tire lift, the wheel jerk slightly in her hand, as Kralik’s head was crushed beneath the weight of the Jeep. The SUV dropped back to the grass with a jerk as the mass-murdering psychopath disintegrated beneath the overheated rubber, dusted.

Buffy pressed on the brake and dropped her head to the wheel as tears of exhausted victory welled in her eyes. Spike leaned forward from the back, licking at her neck, nuzzling her comfortingly. “You have dead mouse breath,” she complained, turning her face away from him.

“Whooof!” he replied happily, trying to squeeze between the seat and the door to get to her face.

Buffy shook her head, took a deep breath and sat back. “I love you, too, boy. We did it… we got him,” she rasped, reaching over to scratch his ears, keeping his dead mouse breath out of her face.

“Whooof!” the dog agreed, his tail slapping against one of the few unbroken windows in the SUV.

Buffy put the Jeep in park, cut the motor, and tumbled out on unsteady legs, bracing herself against the vehicle, half-bent over, barely able to stand. She opened the back for Spike to get out, and the big dog jumped down, only stumbling a little when he hit, before heading for the two people remaining in the yard. Buffy limped along behind him, all her aches and pains redoubling with each step.

“Mom. Spike. God! Are you alright?” the Slayer called as she got up to them.

“Not… the word… I’d use,” Spike ground out, trying not to move his torso at all, which was made more difficult by the dog, who was sniffing and snuffling all around his face and neck. “Sod off, Cujo! Your breath stinks like musty rats. Bloody hell!”

“Oh my God!” the Slayer exclaimed, stepping around behind the vampire to assess the damage, only then realizing he had a stake in his back. She looked down at her mom, dread growing like a lead weight in her chest. If Spike was hurt this badly, what had happened to her mom?

“Are you hurt?! Did they… are you…?” the girl began.

“Buffy… Buffy! You’re… you’re not …?” Joyce stammered at the same time, looking up at her daughter.

Joyce finally pushed up to her feet, eyes wide, her mind racing. “Oh, Buffy! I was so scared! I thought… he had… he had pictures!” she exclaimed, pulling her girl into a bone-crushing hug.

Buffy gasped from the pain of her mother’s embrace, but didn’t try to pull back. “I’ll be alright,” she assured her mom. “Had worse,” she lied.

“Touchin’ as this is, could ya do a bloke a favor and pull the bloody knife outta my back?” Spike growled from the ground.

Buffy and Joyce released their hug, tears of relief in each of their eyes. “Your head! You’ve been bleeding!” Joyce announced, reaching a trembling hand for her daughter’s blood-stained hair.

Buffy touched the side of her head and winced, her fingers coming away damp and red. “That explains the double-vision,” she only half-joked.

“Some of us are _still_ bleeding,” Spike carped.

Buffy sighed tiredly and knelt behind him. “It’s not a knife, it’s a stake,” she informed him, wrapping her fingers around the protruding end.

“Oh, bloody wonderful!” he snarled, gritting his teeth as Buffy moved it around. “Oi! Watch the heart!”

“Don’t be a baby,” she chastised. “It’s nowhere near your heart.”

“Well, it hurts!” he shot back. “Get it out.”

“Hold still and I will,” she ordered, trying to get a grip on the smooth, blood-slick wood.

“For fuck’s sake! What’re you doing, playing fiddlesticks back there?” Spike complained.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I forgot what a big baby you are. Geez, give me a minute…”

“Ya been messing about there for a bleedin’ hour! Pull it out!”

Buffy sighed, gripped the wood as tightly as she could, and yanked. She fell back on her butt with the effort. The vampire screamed. The dog whined. Joyce gasped. The stake didn’t move.

“Umm,” she said sheepishly as Spike panted and writhed in pain on the ground. “It’s stuck.”

“Figured that out, did ya?” Spike groaned.

“I could get … someone…” Buffy stammered, trying to think who she could get – Oz and Xander were probably still at the hospital with Willow, Giles was, of course, out of the question… hmmm. “Oh! Angel!”

“No bloody way,” Spike objected through clenched teeth. “Dust first.”

Buffy sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, meaning it, laying a hand comfortingly on his arm. “Who staked you, anyway?”

Joyce cringed. “That would be me.”

“You?!” Buffy exclaimed, looking up at her mom. “Why?”

“It was an accident. I was aiming for a completely different vampire.”

“An accidental staking?” Buffy mused, shaking her head.

“Clearly need a lesson in stake safety in this sodding house,” Spike grumbled, trying to sit up.

“Here,” Joyce offered, “Let me try. I got it in, maybe…” she suggested with a shrug.

“Beginning to know what a voodoo doll feels like,” the vampire complained as he felt Joyce brace one hand on his back and wrap the other around the end of the stake.

“Okay, this might hurt…” she warned.

Spike rolled his eyes behind closed lids and clenched his jaw. Was she bloody serious?

The next moment he felt the stake tug on the cartilage and tendons in his shoulder. He howled and jerked away from the pain. The wood slipped free of his flesh with a squelch, and a fount of blood.

“You got it!” Buffy proclaimed in victory as Spike pounded a fist into the sod, mainly to keep from pounding it into anyone else, no matter how much they may deserve it.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside… patch you up,” Buffy urged the vampire, as she tried to stand back up, but wavered dizzily. Every trial she’d endured – mental, emotional, and physical – was quickly catching up to the Slayer now that the battle was over. She could feel her energy draining away, getting sucked into a blackhole of utter exhaustion. 

Joyce caught her daughter’s arm and steadied her, then reached down to help Spike back to his feet. The vampire and the Slayer leaned on the elder Summers as they made their way slowly back to the house.

“Did we win? Is it over?” Joyce asked as they trudged past the line of Polaroid’s and limped up the porch steps.

Buffy nodded tiredly, her eyelids suddenly drooping, her limbs filled with lead weights. “We’re still here, so I think we won. Yay,” she cheered flatly. “Go us.”

“If this is what you white hats call winnin’, think I’d rather lose,” Spike continued to carp wearily.

“God, you are such a baby! You aren’t in a wheelchair, are you?” Buffy pointed out, blinking to try and keep her eyes open.

“Oh, well, ‘scuse me, but that’s a mighty low barometer for measuring victory, Slayer.”

“Yeah, well, winners can’t be choosers.”

“Think ya mean ‘beggars.’”

“’Winners can’t be beggars’? That doesn’t sound right,” Buffy countered, frowning as they tromped, bleeding and staggering, into the house.

“Beggars can’t be…” Spike began in exasperation, then sighed, shaking his head as Joyce led them to the couch.

“See? I am right, aren’t I?” Buffy pressed as the two spent warriors collapsed onto the cushions, both groaning and wincing in pain. Joyce made sure they were settled okay before she hurried to the bathroom for the first-aid kit.

“Not right, just too tired t’ argue,” he mumbled.

“Hmph,” Buffy grunted, yawning. The exhaustion was washing over her now like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her. She’d gone beyond her second wind, and third wind and was on her six-hundredth wind, and it was petering out quickly. “So, to get you to stop arguing with me, I just need to stake you in the back?” she muttered.

Spike finally stopped fighting the inevitable – he was done. He let his eyes fall closed, and leaned his head back against the cushions. Everything hurt. He knew he should get some blood, needed it to heal, but his body was too tired to care. His eyelids had the weight of hard-earned survival pulling them down, dragging him headlong into the long-overdue oblivion of sleep. “Could try… haven’t managed it yet, Slayer,” he slurred.

“That a challenge?” she wondered drowsily, curling her legs up on the couch and leaning into him, her own eyes fluttering closed.

“Just a fact,” he rumbled, unconsciously slipping his arm around her as she settled her head on his good shoulder.

“Shouldn’t bleed on the sofa,” she warned, snuggling in closer to him with a bone-tired sigh.

“Mmm… too late,” he pointed out groggily.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For bleedin’ on the sofa?”

Her words were slow and punctuated with yawns, but Buffy eventually got them all out, “For coming. For believing in me. For reminding me who I am.”

A small smile curled his cracked lips, though she didn’t see it. “It’s what friends are for, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, her battered body and frayed emotions relaxing for the first time in days as she cuddled recklessly closer to the vampire. To her friend.

“’Night, Spike.”

“Ni’, pet,” was the hushed reply.

The Guardian of the Twilight pushed the front door closed with his nose, then padded into the living room, wagging his tail happily. He laid down at Buffy and Spike’s feet with a contented, if exhausted, sigh. The bad rabbits were dead. His hoomans were safe. And his friend, the white rabbit, was back. The only thing that could make this night better would be cheezeburgers.

Maybe tomorrow there would be cheezeburgers.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****   
  


**STORY BOARDS**

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**End notes:**

Phew!! Smooth sailing from here on out? Hmmm.... Don't count your ducks before they've quacked. 


	11. Oxford

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**Chapter Notes:**

Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Peeps for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I love hearing from everyone! I apologize for falling behind in replying to your comments. My time is getting squeezed to the breaking point right now, so I’m focusing on keeping the posting schedule. I promise to get caught up on the comments, though!

Thanks also my two wonderful Beta readers and friends: Holi117 and Paganbaby, and to TeamEricNSookie for pre-reading. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I’ll fix it.

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**Chapter 11: Oxford**

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“I’m not sure we have enough bandages—” Joyce was saying as she returned to the living room with the first-aid kit. She stopped when she saw the two warriors passed-out, leaning against each other on the couch, the dog collapsed, asleep at their feet. She’d been psyching herself up to do some type of minor surgery, or at least plenty of bandaging – but apparently that could wait. Joyce closed her eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath, letting it out in a sigh of relief, allowing herself to relax for the first time in what seemed forever. They’d all made it. The Slayer and the vampire were certainly the worse for it, but the worst was over, and they’d all survived. They would heal.

Joyce set the first-aid kit down and grabbed the throw blanket from the chair, draping it over the two sleeping blondes on the couch. She leaned down and touched a soft kiss against her daughter’s forehead, sending up a silent prayer of gratitude. The exhausted Slayer mumbled something and snuggled even closer to the vampire she was using as a pillow, making Spike adjust his position, until they were both comfortable again. After a moment, they both settled – Slayer and vampire – neither opening their eyes nor fully waking. It would look sweet if not for all the dried blood, scrapes, gouges, bruises, and swelling. Maybe it was what qualified for sweet on the Hellmouth, the elder Summers thought. Joyce smiled wanly and brushed a couple of stray curls back away from Spike’s eyes before she reached over and pulled the heavy curtains closed, remembering their guest’s ‘sun allergy’.

With that done, Joyce collapsed down into the chair opposite them and began to sob quietly as everything from the past few days, and especially the last few hours, crashed down on her. She buried her face in her hands as her shoulders shook with the release of all the terror and tension that had built up in her body and her soul. She’d nearly lost her little girl today. She’d nearly died herself. And Mr. Giles had been behind it all... Giles and the Council. She was still trying to comprehend that, trying to come to grips with it, but her exhausted mind wasn’t fully capable of processing all that yet. What she did know without a doubt was, if not for William, she’d have been the one that Kralik would’ve taken rather than their dog. A shudder of horrified revulsion skittered down her spine at the prospect. There was evil and then there was vile; and Kralik was most certainly the vilest creature Joyce had ever encountered.

She felt so ashamed for how she’d behaved. She didn’t know how she’d ever be able to face Spike in the morning. In her misguided attempt to help, she’d done nothing but cause more problems and get the vampire fighting for her hurt. Hell, she’d staked him herself! Joyce’s stomach churned and twisted in regret and humiliation at the thought. She might’ve dusted her protector! Killed the friend who’d come when she’d called. The one who sacrificed his own wellbeing for her, her daughter – even for their dog.

“I’m so sorry, Spike,” Joyce burbled into her hands, her body trembling, wracked with sobs. “Thank you for coming, thank you for everything… so sorry.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike swam up from the misty hold of exhaustion, slowly rising through a sea of treacle to the surface where wakefulness waited. There was something warm and heavy atop him, which he couldn’t sort out for many long moments, not until his mind parted the fog of his deep, heavy sleep.

_Buffy._

He blinked his eyes open to find himself sprawled out on the Summers’ sofa, the Slayer draped over him like a living blanket. He looked around the room, still getting his bearings. Light filtered in around the edges of the heavy drapes, illuminating the room in a soft glow. They were alone. How they’d ended up laying down on the couch, he had no idea. He didn’t even know how long they’d been here. A few hours or a few days – either would’ve been possible.

Spike looked down at the disheveled mane of blood-soaked sunshine that rested against his chest. Buffy’s heart thumped against his ribs, steady and strong. An unconscious purr of contentment rumbled up from deep inside him, pulsing in time with each of her deep breaths. He’d not felt anything as astonishingly comforting as this in his entire unlife. Her heart. Her warmth. Her breath. Her trust. 

Trust in him.

Spike slowly lifted one hand and slipped his fingers through the ends of her hair where it fanned out over his t-shirt. It was grimy and bloody and an absolute revelation. Like fine silk that had been ill-treated and abused. Rough on the outside, but still rich and smooth beneath – a flowing river of sunbeams between his fingers.

Her tresses were just like the Slayer they belonged to. A study in antitheses. Frightened girl. Strong woman. Insecure one moment and stubbornly confident the next. Emotional yet rational. Dedicated in her duty to slay his kind, and yet it was Spike who she’d called when she’d been most vulnerable.

His enemy. His friend. The haunter of his dreams. The prowler always sneaking into his unguarded thoughts.

Maybe Dru was right. Maybe he had gone soft. But if this is what soft felt like – to be trusted, to have friends, to be useful, to be _needed_ – then maybe it wasn’t all bad. The tenderness and innocence of this moment filled a nearly forgotten void deep inside him. Perhaps where his soul had been? He wasn’t sure. But it was a place Dru could never seem to touch; an unconscious need that Buffy soothed without even trying.

He wished he could wake every evening just like this, filled with this warm serenity.

“My Slayer,” Spike breathed contentedly, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Hmmm? What?” Buffy’s sleep-roughened voice replied.

Spike’s eyes shot open as he looked down to find her blinking awake, her face awash in the same confusion his must’ve been when he’d first woken up. He quickly dropped his hand from her hair, his body stiffening beneath her as he watched comprehension dawn for the Slayer. Would she stay? Would she relax back against him? Would she give him more time swathed in her warmth?

“Oh…what’s…?” Buffy stuttered. She immediately began trying to sit up, pull away, her muscles and joints protesting each demand for them to move.

Spike’s purr turned to a hurt and angry growl. Of course she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t get away from him fast enough, could she? Never mind him driving like hell to get here. Never mind that he’d reminded her of her fire. Never mind him fighting like mad to save her mum. The Slayer couldn’t stand to be touching him; couldn’t bear sullying her virtue by laying, however innocently, with the likes of him.

Buffy’s palm pressed on his fly as she tried to sit up and her eyes went wide as she encountered a surprising hardness beneath.

Her shocked eyes met his as she momentarily froze in place.

Spike arched a brow at her, a slow smirk curving his mouth. “Like what ya found there?” he asked, pulling his cloak of cockiness tight around his bruised and battered emotions.

Buffy squeaked and yanked her hand away like it’d been burnt.

She began to scramble, trying to find somewhere that wasn’t part of Spike to put her hands, to push up, but there was nothing. She elbowed him in the ribs, drawing a gasp of pain from the vampire, and dug a knee into his thigh, which elicited a hiss.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” she rasped, jerking her hand off him. Her lower-back sent a sharp twinge of pain up and down her spine and she reached back automatically, trying to soothe it. In the process, the drugged, injured, exhausted Slayer lost her balance and started to fall off the couch. She caught herself on the vampire’s shoulder, which intensified his discomfort and added a colorful howling curse to the mix.

“Sorry!” she barely eked out, snatching her hand away again, before she tumbled off the couch, landing on the thick furball sleeping beneath them. Both the Slayer and the dog cried out in surprise, Buffy’s shoulder and back complaining bitterly about the rough treatment as the dog yipped in when her full weight landed on his still-healing injuries.

“Bloody hell,” Spike growled, his hurt feelings searching for an outlet as he turned onto his side to look down at her. “That how you treat all the vampires you sleep with?”

“ _Sleep with_?” Buffy shrilled, trying to get up at the same time the dog was, neither of them succeeding. “There was no ‘ _sleeping with’_! Not a single moment of… of ‘ _sleeping with’_! There is no ‘ _with’_! I just… fell asleep… with…”

“Didn’t seem too upset by the prospect when you were lifting that curse on Ang—”

He stopped, knowing instantly that he’d gone too far. The hurt that flashed in her eyes had Spike regretting the dig immediately, but it was too late.

Buffy’s face turned to stone as she cradled her right arm and pushed up off her dog, struggling to her feet. “That was once – one vampire, one mistake. Not making it again,” she hissed, finally getting up. “There is no ‘ _with’_ here.”

Spike’s ire continued to grow with her words, her knife digging into one of his most tender spots – Angel always ruining everything for him. “Fine by me, but you were the one on top, Slayer. Wasn’t _me_ pinning _you_ down. If ya wanted another vampire to scratch that itch, all ya had to do was ask – satisfaction guaranteed,” he assured her, curling his tongue against his teeth lecherously, sinking further into his natural defenses.

“You are such a pig! I don’t know what I was thinking even calling you,” the Slayer grated out as she started for the stairs, the dog backing up out of the way, watching everything warily.

“Thinking when the hounds o’ hell were after you, that Spike would be the one who’d come fight at your side, that’s what,” he asserted, getting to his feet with no small effort, his face twisted with pain when his shoulder shifted, but he didn’t let that stop him. “Didn’t see anyone else about last night – not your mates, not your ex, certainly not your sodding Watcher. Me – right here, right in the thick of it with ya,” he seethed. _‘Good enough to protect her mum, but god forbid she be seen with me in the light o’ day like her beloved_ Angel _.’_

Buffy stopped with one foot on the bottom step, not looking at him, and shook her head.

“No?!” Spiked demanded incredulously, taking a step toward her. “I bloody well was—”

“That’s not why I called you,” Buffy whispered.

He stopped; his brows furrowed. “Then… why?”

She snorted to herself and turned around to face him. “Because I wanted someone to tell me why… why it was happening… what was wrong with me. I knew you’d… if you knew, that you’d tell me, no matter how harsh it was. You’d tell me the truth. So, I guess I shouldn’t get mad when you throw it back in my face.”

Spike clenched his jaw, trying to calm down. What the hell was he doing? _‘Knew she’d never touch you when you came here. Why are ya getting brassed off about it now?’_ Unfortunately, he knew why – because he’d let himself indulge, bask in the feel of her when he’d woken and found her still there, with him. Bloody daft, that was. He sighed, regrouping. “Didn’t mean to throw anything in your face… Just… hurt. Pain bypasses my limited brain-cells and shoves all sorts of rubbish right outta my mouth. Like one o’ those squid that shoots out ink, ya know, in self-defense.”

Buffy nodded. “I – I didn’t mean to hurt your shoulder… or your ribs… or, you know… anything else,” she apologized with a blush, her eyes darting below his belt. “I was just trying to get up…”

Spike pursed his lips. Wasn’t the physical pain he’d been talking about, but she didn’t need to know that. He took another tentative step toward her. “It’s alright… didn’t mean what I said. Was a low blow. Both know all that bollocks with the enormous git wasn’t your fault.”

Buffy nodded, dropping her eyes to the floor, wishing she could believe him – wishing it wasn’t her fault. _Reckless_.

“Did you not hear a bloody thing I told ya last night? ‘Bout your fire... how sodding magnificent you are?” he demanded. “Wouldn’t say that if I thought that was your fault, now would I?”

Buffy wanted to believe him, wanted to believe the sincere look in his eyes, but deep down she knew the truth – she’d been a reckless disappointment as a Slayer and a daughter. She had to do better now. She had a second chance, largely because of Spike, and she had to do better this time. She finally cleared her throat, never answering him, and searched for a change of subject. “So, you’re a squid?” she questioned, tilting her head curiously.

Spike blew out a breath in exasperation. “Not the point I was tryin’ to make. Just tossed out that Angel bollocks, cos… well, was the first thing that sprang to my tongue. Not cos it’s true. Didn’t ya check on what I told you about Angel and Slayers?”

Damn it, he wasn’t letting it go. Buffy nodded, biting down on her lower lip. “Yeah, we’ve been looking into it.”

“And?”

“And… Angel was in the same towns as a few different Slayers after the curse. And, yet, I was the only one stupid enough to sleep with him, so…” Buffy shrugged and turned for the stairs again. “I guess that still makes me the reckless one.”

“Buffy…” Spike cajoled, taking another step toward her.

“I’m gonna get a shower, clean up. You can get one when I’m done,” she said, waving him off.

Spike sighed as she hobbled up the stairs away from him, his hands going to his hips, chin hitting his chest. _‘Bloody brilliant. Can’t keep your sodding mouth shut.’_ But she had hurt him. Should’ve known, though. She’d never consciously touch a monster like him. The Slayer had just been too out of it when they’d collapsed there – hadn’t been thinking right. Soon as she realized, off she went, running for the hills, virtue fluttering. 

The dog walked over to the vampire and huffed out a disgusted breath.

“Don’t need any lip from you, Fido,” Spike grumbled, patting down his pockets for his fags.

“Grrrrrr-arff,” the dog half-growled, shoulder-checking the vampire.

Spike stumbled sideways, grimacing when he jarred his impaled shoulder. “Fine… don’t need any lip from you, _Cujo_ ,” he corrected, as he looked around, trying to decide which porch would be out of direct sunlight.

“Woof!” the dog admonished when Spike pulled his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Slayer’s house, Slayer’s rules… I’m goin’,” the vampire assured the Guardian as he headed for the kitchen and the back porch, which seemed the safest bet for a sun-free smoke break.

The blond stopped and looked back up the stairs, then down at the dog. “Tell her I’m sorry, yeah? Really didn’t mean nothing by it… Just, mouth runs away with me at times.”

The dog looked toward the second floor, then back at the vampire, apparently considering. He huffed out a derisive breath, gave the blond a look that seemed to convey that he would owe him one, and headed up after his hooman.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy leaned against the sink and looked at her face in the mirror, trying not to cry. She’d survived the Council’s test, but so what? She was still the reckless one. The disappointing one. All her other achievements seemed to fade to the background in the harsh light of her one gigantic blunder.

And falling asleep in the arms of the ‘enemy’ _again_ – so not helping. Especially considering how safe she’d felt there. For the first time in days, she’d actually slept peacefully. And how soothing it had been when the demon’s rumbling purr vibrated through her, easing every ache in her body and lulling her back towards sleep. And how relaxing it had felt when he’d stroked her hair so gently. And how their bodies seemed to mold together so perfectly. And how hard he’d been when her hand closed over…

Bad. Bad Buffy. Bad, bad, badness.

Of course, all that had come to an embarrassing end when she’d stupidly spoken and let him know she wasn’t actually asleep. God, he must think she’s such a slut, snuggled all up to him like that, draped over him like a big ho. Then, of course, she had to put her hand _there_. Like something Drusilla would do. Drusilla. His girlfriend. She moaned and rubbed her eyes, shaking her head dejectedly. _Bad Buffy._

The Slayer swallowed and looked up to meet her own eyes in the mirror. “You’ve got another chance now. You need to get it right this time. No badness. No reckless. No more stupid Buffy.”

There was a scratching and whining at the door and Buffy broke away from her self-scolding to let her companion in. “Did that giant squid send you up here?” she asked, letting the big dog enter.

Spike sneezed then sat down and looked up at her intently.

Buffy snorted a small laugh, which shifted the daggers in her back and shoulder, and turned the chuckle into a groan. “I’m okay,” she assured him when the dog whined in worry. “We might as well both get cleaned up while we’re here,” the Slayer suggested as she started to struggle out of her grimy, blood-and-sweat-soaked clothes.

She wrinkled her nose up, tossing them on the floor near the hamper. “Well, there’s one advantage to ‘sleeping with’ someone that doesn’t have to breathe, I guess,” she muttered. “They don’t have to smell you.”

“Woof!” Spike agreed, sliding the shower curtain open with his nose.

“Yeah, well, you don’t smell like roses, either, buddy,” she griped as he climbed into the bathtub to wait for her. “Also, I don’t think that tub was really built for two,” Buffy observed, eying the limited amount of remaining space as she leaned in to turn on the water.

_‘Unless the second was a buff vampire with strong, gentle hands who could wash your hair for you and your back and…’_

_‘Bad Buffy! Very bad,_ ’ she chastised herself angrily, her emotions cartwheeling, but determined be a _good_ Slayer from now on, and that meant not snuggling up with vampires, no matter how safe they made her feel.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike inhaled the nicotine and released it in a slow exhale of blue-grey smoke that floated out into the rays of sun filtering into the backyard. He still wasn’t sure what day it was or how long they’d Rip Van Winkled, only that it was getting on into late afternoon. Which meant the time he had left here was very short. Buffy’d likely kick his ass out soon as the sun was down.

This hadn’t worked out anything like he’d thought. He scoffed at the foolish image he’d had of Buffy greeting him at the door, of her smiling, of her welcoming him as a friend. That was bloody William’s doing – daft sod. What was worse was that the demon had wanted it too, had fallen for it, actually believed it. Believed he’d had a friend in this world.

“Could you get any more pathetic?” he chastised himself, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Demons don’t make friends with Slayers – they make meals outta them.”

Spike was on his third cigarette, the last one he had on him, when he heard someone in the kitchen. He listened a moment, cocking his head. Not Buffy. Joyce. Well, maybe he did have one friend. Even if the barmy woman wouldn’t do as he told her when he was trying to keep her safe.

He’d finished his cigarette and had chucked the butt into the flowerbed when she stuck her head out the door. “I’ve got some blood heated up… and cocoa,” she announced, not making eye contact.

“Ta, luv,” Spike replied, a grimace washing over his face as he got up.

Joyce winced in response. “Still bad?”

Spike shrugged his other shoulder, which hurt considerably less. “Be right as rain in a day or two,” he assured her as he followed her into the kitchen. On the counter was, as promised, a warm mug of blood as well as one of cocoa. In addition, there was a bowl of hot chili peppers and a bag of mini-marshmallows.

“I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am,” Joyce apologized, wringing her hands and averting her eyes from the wounded warrior.

“No worries, pet,” Spike replied, sitting down at the counter. “Had worse… mostly from your daughter. ‘Preciate ya missing the heart,” he joked, as he contemplated the offerings before him.

Joyce rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, considering I was trying to _help_ , not impale you, that’s a small blessing.”

Spike looked up and smiled at her reassuringly. “Not sure the Slayer would agree,” he suggested, taking a couple of chili peppers, breaking them in half and dropping them into the blood. Maybe that would help conceal the vile taste of days-old dead pig.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Joyce disagreed, picking up a dishcloth and wiping the counter, just to have something to do with her hands. “Buffy… likes you.”

Spike snorted. “Could tell by her warm welcome – always lovely t’ be accused of killing the family and nearly staked. Not to mention how she scurried away this afternoon like I had soddin’ leprosy.”

“Well, she’s been through a lot,” Joyce pointed out, shaking her head as she scrubbed at a spot that had been on the Formica for the last five years, still not looking at him. “She could use a friend… one who really understands her world and how she must be feeling.” Joyce stopped her fruitless scrubbing and finally looked up at Spike earnestly. “One who won’t be constantly trying to pressure her into anything she doesn’t want, like Angel keeps doing. Which I know you wouldn’t, since you’re so devoted to Drusilla.”

Spike cleared his throat uncomfortably and dropped his eyes to the mug of blood, swirling the chili peppers around in it. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered, lifting the cup to his lips and stopping himself from saying anything else by drinking it all in several long swallows.

“I mean, I know you joke around, tease, but it’s just that – teasing. Nothing serious.”

“Mmmm,” Spike hummed noncommittally, the mug still to his lips.

“So, when… umm, when is Drusilla expecting you back?” the woman wondered, wringing her hands again.

Spike choked on the last few drops of blood. He finally sat the empty mug back down and took a drink of the cocoa to clear not only the taste, but his strangled throat. “Uh, didn’t set any particulars with her,” he answered evasively.

Joyce nodded, watching as he drank more of the chocolate, the little marshmallows disappearing with the liquid. “Not any better with the chilis?” she assumed, frowning.

Spike took a couple more sips of the hot chocolate, swirled it around his mouth, then swallowed it. “A bit better,” he admitted. “Maybe heat the next one up with the peppers in it, eh?” the vampire suggested, pushing the mug across the counter to her. He really didn’t want more. While it was some better, the blood wasn’t fresh and there was just so much you could do to mask the stale flavor. But, old or not, it was blood, and he’d need it to heal. Since the Slayer wasn’t likely to abide him going hunting, it would have to do. Though maybe if he were hunting the Watcher that did all this to them, she’d give him a pass. He snorted to himself, knowing better. Bloody girl was too sodding good for that; was one of the things that drew people to her... like a sun drawing planets into her brilliant orbit.

“Sure,” Joyce agreed, going back to the fridge for another container, happy to be able to do something to help. “I’ve got… Worcestershire sauce… ummm… horseradish, Tabasco, soy sauce, bar-b-que… Do you want to try any of that?” she asked as she dug through the various condiments in the fridge.

Spike considered a moment. “Tabasco might be a bit of alright,” he suggested. “Not sure ‘bout the rest, maybe give them a go later, yeah?”

Joyce nodded, setting the bottle of hot sauce on the counter as she got another mug of blood ready, including a couple of the fresh chilis, and popped it into the microwave.

Spike knew when Buffy came out of the bathroom. A mist of warm, mango and vanilla scented air floated down the stairs, followed closely by an excited, damp furball covered in the same sweet scent. Spike arched a brow at the big dog. _‘Sleep with the Slayer and shower with her, too? Bloody hell!’_

“Out you go,” Joyce ordered, moving to the back door as the dog wiggled and waggled in gleeful exuberance around the kitchen, leaving a soggy sheen of bathwater on the floor in his wake. “And no rolling in the dirt!” she warned.

“Wooof!” Spike agreed, bounding out into the yard.

“Never seen anyone quite so happy for a wash up before,” Spike observed as the microwave dinged.

“I think the happy comes from the bath being _over_ ,” Joyce replied, getting the mug of blood and setting it on the counter for him.

“Reckon so,” Spike allowed, shaking a generous amount of Tabasco sauce into the blood and stirring it with his finger. _‘If I showered with the Slayer, I’d never want the bath to be over...’_

Joyce gave him a reproachful look and set a spoon down next to him.

“Uh… apologies,” he muttered, sucking the blood off his digit.

“What are you apologizing for now?” Buffy asked flippantly as she came into the kitchen, smelling very much like the dog that had just passed through, only with the sweet undertone of ‘Slayer’ instead of the musk of ‘wet hound’.

Spike looked up at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes as she detoured to the pantry and pulled out a box of cereal. Buffy was clean, her hair slightly damp, like the dog’s. No makeup, no shoes. Swollen, purple and yellow bruises were still visible on her face and neck. There were scrapes and cuts starting to scab over, as well. She still favored her right shoulder, but overall, she seemed to be moving a little better. The girl was dressed in grey sweatpants and faded green t-shirt that said, ‘ _I may be wrong …. but I doubt it,’_ on the front.

_‘Not planning on going out, then,_ ’ Spike surmised.

A little swath of golden skin peeked out on her lower back as she reached for the breakfast food. Spike cleared his throat and looked away. “Uh, forgot m’ table manners is all,” he answered her, picking up the blood and taking a sip.

“You can take the vampire out of the grave, but ya can’t make him use a coaster,” Buffy muttered, getting out a bowl.

Spike scowled at her back as he added in a few more shakes of hot sauce into the blood and stirred it with the spoon.

Buffy turned to look at him then, bringing the box of Cocoa Puffs and bowl with her to the breakfast bar. “That’s not human, is it?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “No, Slayer, it’s porcine.”

Buffy furrowed her brows. “Where did you get that?”

“I got it for him… at the butcher shop,” Joyce provided.

Buffy looked more confused, her gaze shifting between her mom and the vampire. “They sell porcupine blood at the butchers now?”

“ _Porcine_ ,” Spike repeated impatiently. “Swine, oink-oink, Wilbur, pig, as in ‘the three little’ …Bloody hell, thought you’d made it past primary school, Slayer.”

Buffy lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and stomped over to the fridge, pulling a paper from under one of the magnets. She turned and slapped it down on the counter in front of the smartassed blond. “I’ll have you know I scored 1430 on my SATs. And that was with zero sleep and an annoying vampire lurking in his car in my front yard threatening my dog. I could go to… to Harvard or Yale or… or… Oxford,” she declared with a pout.

“Pffft, _Oxford_ ,” Spike scoffed. “Cambridge. Now that’s a proper university,” he asserted.

“Yeah, well, I could get in there, too! Just because you use words that went out with Star Trek… the _original_ one, not that TNG one.”

Spike snorted. “Have you know, Slayer, Star Trek will live forever, like me. _‘Resistance is futile._ ’”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You’re a Trekkie? Could you get any more annoying?”

“That a challenge?” he wondered, smirking at her.

Buffy rolled her eyes and grabbed the milk out of the fridge. “Why don’t you take your _porcine_ ass up and wash some of that stink off?”

“Very good, Slayer. Used it in a proper sentence and everything. T’morrow we’ll learn another word you clearly don’t know the meaning of: ‘ _gratitude_ ,’” Spike snapped, before gulping down the remainder of the blood.

“Ha-ha,” Buffy mocked, pouring her cereal in a bowl. “I have gratitude; I’m a gratitude-a-thon,” she asserted, adding the milk. “I thanked you last night when you were bleeding all over the sofa. Or did your memory leak out with your stolen blood?”

Spike set the empty mug down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood up. “Can take the Slayer outta the graveyard, but can’t make her less of a bitch,” he countered, picking up what remained in the cup of cocoa and taking it with him as he headed for the stairs.

Buffy blew out a disgusted breath and rolled her eyes before grabbing a spoon and digging viciously into the innocent bowl of chocolatey-goodness.

“Buffy,” Joyce said reprovingly.

“What?” the girl snapped.

Joyce gave her her best ‘I taught you better than that’ looks. “Spike helped us. I think you could at least try to be a little nice to him.”

Buffy looked back down at her cereal, guilt weighing heavily on her heart, because she really was a grateful-athon. The things Spike had said to her before she’d gone to the boarding house, his voice in her head, kept her going when she really wanted to quit, to give up, to let her fire snuff, and there was no doubt he’d saved her mom. How much more full of ‘grate’ could she be? But, how was she supposed to do this? Be a good Slayer _and_ be nice to Spike? Not be reckless, but be forever indebted to her mortal enemy, sometimes ally, for his help? Not be a disappointment, but be friends with a soulless vampire?

She had no idea. “Yeah, fine,” the Slayer agreed sullenly, unsure how to walk this razor’s edge and not go back on her pledge to the universe, and to herself, to be better. 

Joyce sighed. How had these two not killed each other on that road trip? Deciding to stay out of it, she went over to let the dog back in – at least _he_ was in a good mood.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Wooof!” Spike warned, taking his eyes off the bowl of chocolatey puffs that he kept hoping would drop from Buffy’s hands, and starting for the front door. A moment later there was a knock.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Joyce asked, as she and Buffy both followed him.

“No,” the Slayer replied anxiously as the dog continued barking at the door. Buffy put an arm out to try and keep her mother behind her.

“Buffy, honestly! It’s daylight, how bad could it be?” Joyce objected to her daughter’s silent instruction.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Just had to say it, didn’t you?” she groaned as she grabbed a stake from the basket by the door before peeking out the sidelight window. “Yep, totally jinxed it,” the Slayer announced as she unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, stake still in hand.

The Guardian went out first, though his bark died as he met the first ‘intruder’, morphing into a low, ominous growl.

“You’ve got some nerve—” Buffy began, holding the stake up, ready to strike.

“Buffy, my dear,” Giles entreated, looking disheveled, still wearing the same clothes he’d had on the previous day. “I… I do apologize for this intrusion, but, the vampire, Kralik… we’ve searched all night but have been unable to locate him, o-or Blair. I fear one or both may be coming for you.”

“Wow… figured that out all on your own? You must’ve gone to _Oxford_ ,” the Slayer retorted.

“I – yes, but… I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Giles stammered as the dog sniffed derisively at the second man.

“I believe your Slayer is trying to tell you that the vampire was already here,” the other man drawled haughtily from behind Giles.

“He must be the brains of the operation,” Buffy snarked. “Let me guess… Council.”

“Errr… y-yes,” Giles replied, stepping aside. “Buffy Summers, this is Quentin Travers, head of the Council of Watchers.”

“So, you’re the one that set that vampire free?” she asked, still holding the stake at the ready.

“I assure you, Miss Summers, I did not set Kralik free. Due to an unfortunate circumstance, he escaped,” Travers replied.

“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Buffy retorted.

“Miss Summers, would you mind calling off your hound?” the Council Head requested.

“I have a better idea,” Buffy replied. “How about I have him rip your limbs off and use them as chew toys, like your vampire tried to do to us?”

Spike took up a position between Buffy and the newcomer, his eyes narrowed, watching Travers intently, a threatening growl still rumbling from his chest.

Both men looked down at the dog who obligingly bared his fangs for them. They both took a step back, Travers staying slightly behind Giles and to one side. “I completely understand—” Rupert began.

“Spare me,” Buffy cut him off. “Why don’t you go crawl back under your rock so I don’t have to clean blood off my porch this afternoon? I’m really not in the mood for housework right now.”

“Buffy,” Giles implored, holding his hands out placatingly, even as the dog continued to eye him suspiciously. “If you know where either vampire is, please do let us know. It is urgent that we contain them.”

“Well, you’ll need a shop vac and a whisk broom. They’re both dust on the lawn… right over there,” the Slayer informed him, waving the stake toward the half-demolished Jeep still parked under the trees in the front yard.

“Y-you… dusted them both?” Giles gawped. “H-how… when?”

“I dusted Kralik. Vehicular demon-cide. Blair was… Someone else got him. Are you happy? Do I get a cookie?” she snarked bitterly.

“Oi! Would one ‘a you ladies do a bloke a favor and fetch my bag outta the boot o’ my car?” Spike asked as he sauntered down the stairs.

Buffy and Joyce turned from the door and looked up at the vampire.

“Holy…” Joyce began, her eyes wide as pie plates.

“…Shit,” Buffy finished.

“W-what… is…? Is that… _Spike_?” Giles stuttered, staring gobsmacked at the vampire who was wearing nothing but a smirk and a towel slung low around his slim hips. Another towel was in Spike’s hands, casually drying his hair. “I demand to know the meaning of this!” Giles insisted from the porch, looking between the three people in the house. “What is he doing here? And why is he… errr… in this state of undress?”

Buffy felt a bright flush tingle her skin, rising from her chest all the way up to heat her face and prickle her scalp. Jesus God, the vamp looked better than she’d remembered, even with the bruises and swelling peppering his body. Those abs were… yeah, could totally do laundry on them. And his strong arms… and his shoulders and… chest… solid… and chiseled… and … Oh, God, he wasn’t gonna drop the towel again, was he? Here? In front of her mom? In front of Giles? Panic started to rise along with her blush as her eyes finally lifted from his physique and met his amused gaze.

Buffy shook her head in a small, but frantic, negative motion. “Don’t you dare,” she mouthed as she saw the mischievous gleam spark in his sapphire blue eyes. “I mean it,” she threatened in a whisper, pointedly brandishing the stake.

Spike curled his tongue against his teeth and ambled up to Buffy, leaning in very close to her ear. “You owe me one,” he murmured, before stepping away.

“You suck,” she growled back, sotto voce.

Spike winked at her, sucking his cheeks in and sharpening his cheekbones into razors. He grinned then, and turned his attention to the others. “Sorry, didn’t know ya had guests,” he said louder. “Reckon they’ll just let anyone in this house, eh, Watcher? Even back-stabbing pricks and holier-than-thou twits. Though, it appears you aren’t actually inside, are you?” he pointed out. “Invitation been revoked?”

“Buffy! This is… is quite… disturbing,” Giles stammered.

“You don’t get to be disturbed anymore,” Buffy shot back, turning her back on the half-naked vampire. She deliberately put herself between him and the others in the hopes that any wardrobe malfunction would be hidden from view. She could feel Spike not two feet behind her, though. Feel the tingling sparks of his power skittering up and down her spine and settling warmly in other places she really didn’t want to think about.

The dog began wagging his tail. Apparently happy to have backup in case things got ugly, he padded back inside, taking a seat on the hardwood next to his namesake. The vampire scratched his ears absently, keeping his eyes on the gits outside, particularly checking their hands for weapons, but they didn’t seem to be armed. “Bloody convenient having the Bubble and Squeak delivered, Slayer. Would’a dressed for dinner if I’d known,” Spike taunted.

“William the Bloody. Am I correct?” Travers asked flatly, looking past Buffy’s shoulder and eyeing Spike coolly, unfazed by the barely veiled threat. With the dog back inside, both tweed-clad men took a step forward, resuming their positions closer to the door.

Spike gathered up the towel he’d been holding and draped it around his neck, gave the dog a final pat on the top of the head, and stepped forward, next to Buffy, a cocky grin curving his lips. “Heard of me, have you?”

“No, actually. We've met in your pre-peroxide days. 1963. My colleagues and I fell upon you slaughtering an orphanage in Vienna. Killed two of our men before you escaped,” Travers recounted.

Spike arched a brow. “Reckon I should’a stuck around and finished the job, eh? Might’a saved the Slayer a bit of bother. Don’t usually leave tasks half-done like that; sets a bad example for the bitty vamps. Impressionable, they are. Wouldn’t want them growing up without proper schooling,” he revealed in a grave, confidential tone.

Buffy pulled her lips between her teeth and looked away, momentarily closing her eyes and shaking her head. Leave it to Spike to make her smile inappropriately.

“Yes. Very amusing,” Quentin drawled, looking at Buffy. “I see you find it so, Miss Summers,” he accused condescendingly. “Do you often entertain naked vampires in your home?”

“First, none of your business. Two, he’s not naked. And C, he’s a guest and a _friend_.”

“Is he, indeed? I will be making a report to the Council—”

“I’m quaking in my affordable but stylish boots,” Buffy quipped, interrupting him. “Make all the reports you want to the Council; it won’t change anything. Spike’s my friend. When I lost my power, he came to help me. Not _you,_ not Giles – William the Bloody. The Council tried to _kill_ me; the Slayer of Slayers came to _help_ me. What the hell is wrong with this picture?” she demanded, her voice nearing a shriek.

“The primary thing I see wrong with this picture is my Slayer harboring a demon. That’s quite unacceptable,” Travers replied, his demeanor remaining calm, which just irked Buffy more.

“ _Your_ Slayer? YOUR Slayer? Newsflash – I’m not _your_ Slayer. I don’t work with backstabbing chameleons!” Buffy barked. “Also, I’m not _harboring_ him. We have a temporary truce – allowing us to work together for the greater good. You know that thing you keep telling me I’m supposed to care about?”

“And you think a soulless vampire will honor such an agreement? That he will not slaughter you in your sleep? My dear girl, you are quite delusional,” Travers rejoined.

“This _soulless vampire_ has more honor in his little finger than your club of feeble old men has ever had!” Buffy retorted, jabbing the stake at Travers as she reached out and touched her other hand down on Spike’s bare shoulder. “Spike might kill me one day, but it won’t be during a truce. And I guarantee he’s man enough to look me in the eye when he does it, not stab me in the back like big, fat cowardly chameleons! He’s certainly not going to lie to me or drug me or send his pet psychopath after me.”

The Slayer scrunched up her face and looked at Spike. “You aren’t gonna do that again, right? Send those hitmen after me?”

“Never. Have my word on it,” Spike promised, standing up straighter. Her hand was a tangible warmth on his shoulder, like her words were on his heart. _Her guest. Her friend_. _Her trust._ Small bursts of sunlight spread down his torso from her touch, filling him with renewed confidence in his decision to come here, which he’d been seriously doubting after their conversation earlier. The girl really was like a pinball machine, and while it was tilting in his favor, Spike was going to play. “Kill ya fair and square when the time comes. Face-to-face like a proper missionary, if that’s your fancy… though could try out some other positions first, if ya like,” he suggested with a leer, curling his tongue against his teeth.

“Don’t be a pig in front of the company,” Buffy chastised lightly, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, dear Lord. Buffy—” Giles began in exasperation.

Buffy whirled on Giles. “Don’t ‘ _Buffy’_ me. If it wasn’t for him, your cute little unstable escapee would’ve _killed my mother_. Kralik came _here_. To my fucking house. He came after my _mother_ ,” Buffy snarled, still gripping the stake in her hand, though her fingers were beginning to tremble and ache. “So, Spike and his piggy remarks and half-nakedness? He stays. You go.”

“Buffy, I am still your Watcher and I must warn you—”

“No, Mr. Giles, you are _not_ her Watcher,” Joyce interjected, stepping forward and coming into the argument for the first time. “What you are is just what Buffy said, a coward and a _monster_.”

“Joyce, believe me, it was never my intention—” Giles tried to defend, but Joyce kept talking, getting angrier by the moment.

“Intention?!” she repeated incredulously. “I’m not judging by intentions! I’m talking about _actions_. You poisoned our dog! You drugged my daughter! You took her strength away from her. You watched her suffer, saw her injuries and her desperation, and did _nothing_ but lie right to our faces about it! Buffy could’ve died! And for what? To save the world? To stop some horrible evil from spreading? To keep innocent people safe from the horrors around them?”

Joyce paused a moment, her chest heaving as she looked from Giles to Travers and back again. Giles, at least, had the good sense to look ashamed. “No,” she answered for them, breaking the tense silence. “For the entertainment of some toothless old men. Did you get off on it? On the control and the power? Is that how you get it hard these days, _Ripper_?”

Giles gritted his teeth, his face flushing with shame and embarrassment. “Joyce, I promise you—” he pleaded.

“Is that why you do this?” Joyce continued, talking over him. “This so-called _trial_? So you can feel high and mighty? So you can fool yourself into thinking _you matter_? Did watching Buffy suffer, hearing her beg for help, give you some sick thrill?”

“I assure you, it did not,” Giles replied, abashed.

“What about you?” she asked turning her attention to Travers.

“Mrs. Summers. While I understand you’re upset—” the head of the Council began placatingly.

“You understand _nothing_ ,” Joyce shot back. “If you understood anything, you wouldn’t have this trial… this circumcision…”

“Cruciamentum,” Giles corrected with a grimace. 

“It’s barbaric,” the elder Summers continued.

“We’re fighting a war, Mrs. Summers—” Travers defended.

“You’re waging a war,” Giles pointed out feebly. “She’s fighting it. There is a difference.”

“Certain sacrifices must be made,” Travers continued, ignoring his comrade.

“Pffft!” Spike interjected. “What ya mean is, when the little girls get old enough t’ start thinking for themselves, you lot are afraid ya can’t control them properly. Afraid the student will surpass the master, are you? Only way to get in new blood that you can twist to your liking is to off the old one. Just how many Slayers actually survive this little _torture_ , eh?”

Expressions of surprise washed over the two men’s faces. Spike arched a brow. “Yeah, I speak sodding Latin, just didn’t know the proper name of it ‘til now. Cruciamentum… torture, torment, pain. Comes from ‘crucio’, to crucify. Didn’t tell the chit that bit, then, did you?”

“No,” Buffy answered for them, finally removing her hand from the vampire’s shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest.

Spike regretted the withdrawal of her touch immediately, but pressed on, glaring at Travers, “Haven’t answered the question, Vienna. How many don’t make it?”

“Oh, my God,” Buffy breathed, her mind flipping back through the research they’d been doing on Slayers, remembering all the final journal entries of countless Watchers. ‘ _Age at time of death: eighteen.’_ She looked up at Giles, then over to Travers. “He’s right. I… I don’t know why I didn’t… I just figured time had caught up to them, but that’s not it at all. You killed them. You killed them so you could have a new girl… a confused, frightened girl you could control, not one coming into her own. You don’t want women Slayers… you want _girls_.”

“That’s preposterous,” Travers insisted patronizingly. “The Tento di Cruciamentum is a time-honored rite of passage. A Slayer is not just physical prowess. She must have cunning, imagination, and a confidence derived from self-reliance. When it is done, the Slayer is stronger for it.”

“Or deader,” Buffy added angrily, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Mostly, deader.”

“Looks like the title o’ ‘Slayer of Slayers’ rightfully belongs to you then, eh, 007?” Spike asked, sneering at Travers.

“Stay away from my daughter,” Joyce seethed, stepping up to close the door. “And get off my porch before I call the police... or worse.”

“A Slayer needs a Watcher,” Travers insisted, slipping his foot into the opening to keep her from slamming it.

“My daughter is done being your cat’s paw. If Faith wants to play your games, then fine – she can decide for herself. But I warn you, if you try this ‘time honored’ crucifixion on that girl, or any other girl, I will put a stop to it in ways that will have your balls in a very public vise,” Joyce threatened. “Now get your foot out of my fucking door before I have Spike rip it off.”

The vampire and the dog both stepped up, pleased to be of service. Travers pulled his foot out. The two Spikes looked disappointed as Joyce thumped the door closed in the man’s face.

“The gall!” Joyce exclaimed, clenching her fists in anger and frustration. “I could just — _argh_!”

“Want me to kill ‘em for ya?” Spike offered, arching a brow at the elder Summers.

“Yes,” both Joyce and Buffy said at once.

“Quick n’ easy or long and painful?” he wondered, gripping the towel that hung around his neck with both hands.

“Very painful,” Buffy grumbled.

“Right, then…” Spike agreed, pulling the door open again. Giles and Travers were partway down the walkway and looked back when the door opened. Spike began to step out onto the porch, but stopped and frowned. “Might work better if I had on some pants,” he suggested, looking down at himself. He heard Giles suggest that they hurry along, making Spike chuckle to himself. If not for the truce with the Slayer those two gits would be worm food by now. ‘Course, the truce wouldn’t last forever, now, would it?

Buffy rolled her eyes and sighed, finally dropping the stake back into the basket by the door and massaging her aching hand with the other. “Excuses, excuses…” she muttered, then began in a mocking tone, “I don’t have any pants. The sun’s still out. Tweed gets stuck in my teeth. Old man blood tastes like mothballs.”

Spike shrugged. “Now that ya mention it, tweed is a bitch t’ get outta your fangs.”

“You are such a baby.” The Slayer huffed out a breath, watching out the door as Giles and Travers got into her ex-Watcher’s car. “And now it’s too late. God, you are a pathetic excuse for a vampire.”

Spike shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Just seems a bit too ‘Rom-Com’ to be torturin’ the wankers in a bath towel.”

Buffy snorted, shaking her head. “Fine. I’ll get your bag from the car for you. Keys,” she requested, holding out her hand as soon as the two Council members pulled away.

“Oh, right,” Spike muttered, patting down the towel around his hips as if they would be hidden in there. “Gimme a mo’,” he said, as he turned and started back upstairs.

The phone began to ring. “I’ll get it,” Joyce offered, heading back into the kitchen to answer it.

“And you thought _my_ plan sucked. You wanted us to get your bag, but didn’t bring the keys?” Buffy called after him. “Or did you think we’d refuse and just let you prance around the house-half naked until dark?”

Spike reappeared at the landing, his lips pursed into a smirk as he sauntered down. “Well, ya don’t seem averse to the idea judging by—”

“Shut up,” Buffy snapped, grabbing the keys from his hand when he came within reach. _Creepy vampire smelling._ This was okay right? Friendly banter with a soulless demon maybe wasn’t on the Council’s approved behavior list, but it was on her mom’s. And the Council didn’t count now, did it? She officially didn’t work for them anymore. Maybe she _could_ navigate this razor’s edge after all.

Spike bit down on his bottom lip, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Give that face-to-face thing some thought, Slayer. Could try out some other positions if ya want – you know, all nonlethal-like. Make sure that’s the one you want to go with later. Would hate for you to not be completely satisfied with your last dance. Bad for my image, that.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and started out the door. “You may not have noticed, but I’m not that easy to kill, Spike. So, maybe _you_ need to be the one thinking about _his_ last dance.”

Spike watched her ass sway away from him down the walk, his smirk growing. “I have, Slayer… believe me, I have,” he muttered to himself, enjoying the view.

* * *

**STORY BOARD**

**If you have downloaded this chapter and can't see the photo, you can find** [ **it at this link.** ](https://flic.kr/p/2kK1wkm)

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**End Notes:**

Thank you so much for reading! Things are going to calm down for a minute or two, but that doesn’t mean the slow burn is going to fire up into a raging spuffy wildfire just yet. I did warn you! I hope you aren't too disappointed that Giles and Travers didn't get bitten, beat up, or peed on. I really loved all the insults though, Joyce's was an especially excellent burn, I thought. Don't give up hope on at least one of them (Giles/Travers) paying some dues in the coming chapters.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a good Spike-in-a-towel picture to include in the story board, but the Spike doll with the towel/sheet is from this website: https://www.sashacustoms.co.uk/whedon/buffy/btvs-6/p6-11-sheet-spike

Also, did you notice the DeSoto keys in the story board (bottom left). Aren't they cool? I actually thought about buying them just for funsies, but they wanted like $90 for that set of blanks! Uh, no. But I really like them.

I was gonna have Buffy make some comment about getting circumcised in a tent cos of the: “Tento di Cruciamentum” and then have Spike translate it, but it turns out that phrase does not translate well from Latin. Per Darren Lester's page/article: _“Don’t Speak Latin in Front of the Books”: Latin as the Lingua Franca of Magic in Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ \--- ‘Tento’ means ‘held’ and so we could do a very loose translation of ‘Held in Torture’ but ‘di’ isn’t a word in Latin. It appears that we have a mix of Latin and modern Italian, with ‘tento di’ being Italian for “I try to…” resulting in a mixed translation of “I try to torment”. Therefore, I just skipped that joke.

Also, if you are unfamiliar with Bubble and Squeak, from Wiki: _Bubble and Squeak is a British dish made from cooked potatoes and cabbage, mixed together and fried. The food writer Howard Hillman classes it as one of the "great peasant dishes of the world". The dish has been known since at least the 18th century, and in its early versions it contained cooked beef._ Basically, Spike was saying dinner had been delivered. 

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